


Alex has left you a comment

by Luxi_Storyteller, saucilyregal



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7559653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luxi_Storyteller/pseuds/Luxi_Storyteller, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucilyregal/pseuds/saucilyregal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They know each other but only through last names and subtle smiles. Their lives so intertwined that its amazing to consider they never knew before now. But life has a way of crossing paths, and the real question is can two school teachers give love a chance when everything has always been just another heart break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

~Dilynn~

Sunlight peaks through dusty slats in the blinds across my face, so when I peek one eye open there’s nothing but brightness. Just irritating brightness. It’s too early in spring to be this bright. This brightness means it will be sickeningly warm, in spite of how cool the inside of my room feels. Soft sounds of outside life are already present and carrying through the window with the chilled air from the rainstorm that had passed through last night. Each drop of rain pounding against the house was accompanied by window shaking rolls of thunder.

It’s a Saturday. The first Saturday of Spring Break. Saturdays should mean sleeping in, so why the hell am I not still asleep? The venue. I’ve been looking forward to visiting the venue for the wedding for weeks. Reaching over, I try to touch him but am met with cold sheets and no body. I groan again, this time at the missing body of one fiancé with floppy dark hair and boyish good looks. I try not to be that girl. Try not to think about the fact that Brandon had been home very little all week. When I can’t not think about it, I remind myself that he has to work a few overnights at the teen center. The nag in my mind though reminds me that in addition to missing nights, he’s habitually been late every night and has left early each morning he actually is home.

Frustration settling within, I twist my feet in the comforter.  _ He must have forgotten about the venue _ , I realize as tears prick in my eyes. I rub them away, along with the crusties from the deep sleep.

Leaning over, I pull the phone from the bedside table. Checking the time, I know I’m awake earlier than usual. 7:30. 

_ No way is it possible to be up this early. No way can I expect the kid to get up with me at this hour, let alone on a Saturday.  _

Pulling the blanket over my head, I close my eyes and deeply inhale the subtle fruity fabric softener and appreciate the morning after freshly washed sheets. I convince myself that,  _ another hour won't hurt anything, _ but the pressure in my bladder causes me to clench my legs together and pull into the fetal position.

No matter how I twist, it’s only five minutes more and the battle’s lost. Kicking at the blankets as though they have wronged me in many ways, I jumble them properly at the base of the bed. Getting out of bed is really not that difficult, it’s more of the walk to the bathroom. Stepping over the chocolate lab and seven feet past the baseboard of the iron framed bed. The pads of my feet thud lightly against the floor before I plop down on the toilet.  

I hear the cry of what is too similar to an infant before the albino cat runs into the room. His jaws wide as he screams three feet from the toilet. I’ll never understand why the albino cat always wants my attention when I needed to relieve myself, but here he is. Yellowish green eyes stare at my seated, half naked form.

"Good morning to you too," I speak to him. He’s so kind as to break my eardrum with several more high pitched cries of displeasure. My hand coming up to wave at him. 

"I got it, dude. You can see the bottom of your food dish and you are going to starve to death." I roll my eyes dramatically for no audience in particular. He knows what I speak of though. His fluffy cat body turns and bolts from the bathroom to his food dish on the other side of the wall.

I don’t run to the food dish though. Rather I take my time to his screaming displeasure. Only with washed hands, and brushed teeth do I walk over, shake his actually full bowl and say, “Your food has been blessed, demon cat.”

Returning immediately to the bathroom, I stare at the dark circles under my eyes from the restless sleep of the night before. It takes moment to see the note left by Brandon written in expo marker on the mirror. “Dilynn had to go. Be back later.” 

_ Well at least he left a note.  _

As I brush my hair, I debated whether my hair needs to be washed or if I, as a grown woman, can get away with an elastic headband and a messy bun. Realizing that time is running out, I go with the latter before pulling on a pair of dark skinny jeans and a thin black shirt.

Orion screams again and this time it’s because he actually can see the bottom of the bowl.  Shaking my head, I thrust my feet into black crocheted slip ons that pull the outfit together.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" I yell at him. Gliding the black liquid eyeliner over top lid of each eye, then the pencil below, creating an intense blue stare.  _ Ready for war _ , I say to myself, but the seriousness just has me laughing about how ridiculous I am. 

After filling the cat's bowl, I leave the bedroom. There’s a gigantic pile of student stories and essays that I need to read in the next week while we’re on Spring Break. The pile completely off center, and only needs a slight push before they will collapse in a heap over the wooden table and floor. Not sure what compels me, but I look over the top document. The Times New Roman font across the top page of the ninth grader’s poorly formatted essay. I start to pick it up, but decided against subjecting my Saturday morning to such a painful mind-numbing task, I walk away from them.

Instead I take the four steps to cross the imaginary border separating dining room to kitchen, and seven more steps to the black side-by-side refrigerator. Grabbing four blueberry waffles from the freezer, I put them in the family size toaster. Turning one side to a five for me and the other a three for the still sleeping teen.

While the waffles cook, the lab that came from the hallway where Everleigh is still sleeping gets fed. The dog’s tail wagging furiously as the silver bowl is set into the risen holder with the symbolic feeding clang. Running my hands down the dog’s back as she ate, I tell her she’s a good girl.

With the morning animal feedings all done, there’s only one more being in the house to wake just down the small hallway. The darkened passage that needs a new light because neither of us care enough to change out the bulb in the light. I pass the guest room and the bathroom, before making it to the last door of the hall. My knuckles knock gently on the hollow wood that just partially open. 

"Evie, honey. It's time to get up.” 

I stand and listening but hear no movement. 

“We have some errands to run." 

I wait again, but don’t hear so much as a grunt of acknowledgement.

Carefully pushing the door the rest of the way open, my olfactory senses are assaulted by the aroma of dirty softball socks mixed with vanilla sandalwood perfume that the seventeen year old girl loves. I choke but it’s no use, I can taste the kid’s feet as though they have been in my mouth. Opening my eyes as I wipe at my tongue, I can see my daughter twisted and passed out in a tangled mess of sheets.

Standing there, I consider how different life could have been. I mean I never planned on adopting a teenager. Let alone at the age of 26; however, it was my first year of teaching, and amount of lectures they gave all new staff about boundaries and not engaging students in communication about their personal lives would not stop me from caring what they called “too much”. Closing my eyes again, I picture the plastic chair next to my desk, labeled the “therapy chair.” Daily helping students work through their self-doubt, anger, or depression.

Her chest rises and falls, a sleep that had not always come so easy for my girl. Months of waiting before Everleigh was comfortable enough to come speak to me. It was the type of conversation that a teacher is mandated to report, so that’s what I did.

Two months in parenting classes, and six in fostering the angry girl. Another eight months before Everleigh’s adoption got approved. But it was worth it. Even the times where the teenager intentionally pushed me to my breaking point. Testing me over and over again, to see if I would breakdown and be like the last guardian in her life. They had warned me in classes it would happen, but no amount of warning can prepare you for the anger of a fourteen year old that drew the short stick in life. 

There’s a deep breath with every flash of memory. The way that Everleigh would test to see if she could really trust me not to beat her, starve her, or rape her. Test me also because she needed a way to explain and express her pain, but the only way was to share it. Share it through cruel and angry words that bit into my flesh and being, toughening me up to be the parent that Everleigh needed.

While Everleigh still sleeps with gentle snores rising from the smothering blankets, I consider my own loses that help me understand. Helped me understand that girl didn't account for me having had been there, done that. Waking from my trance, I decide the gentle approach was not the business for this morning, or maybe the painful memories hadn’t really been worked away and there were little ways to get back at a human wrongs. Like an opera wake up.

In my best opera impersonation, I call at the top of my lungs, “EVERLEIGH BLACK GREYSON WAKE UP! WAKE UP! YOU SLEEPY HEAD! GET UP! GE- umph.” My body hits the door thanks to the force of the pillow that had just collided with my head.

"Seriously, Momma G! You could have just said it's time to get up!" the girl groans, her green tinted blue eyes hard set and lips pursing in a grumpy scowl.

"Tried that," I answer throwing the pillow back at the girl. The girl swats it away with ease and rolls back over into the comfort of her own bed, obviously not planning on getting up

Seeing that there is more of a push needed to get Everleigh up, I just start talking about the plan for the day and moving around the room. Touching things here and there. "I need you to go with me to see the venue, and then we have a few other errands to run,” I state as cheerfully as possible with a masked smile plastered on my face. My mind tells my heart that it’s okay the plans have been disrupted for the day.

Facing the wall in an attempt to fall back into a deep sleep, the teen responds with another husky grunt, "I thought  _ he _ was going with you." I don’t miss the fact that the girl doesn’t use Brandon’s name. She never uses my fiancé’s name.

"He had something to do this morning. So it's you and me, lady!" I answer with a little less excitement, which apparently spoke enough to get Everleigh’s attention, because she sits up and drops her legs from the bed. Looking at me, Everleigh contemplates her words. I try to image the gears turning in the girl's head, each clicking audibly into place.

When she does speak, it’s sadly not a phrase that’s uncommon. The conversation had too often, "We don't need him." 

Twirling the small princess cut diamond ring around my finger, I meet my daughter's eyes. "But he is what I want, Evie," I says. But in the same breath think,  _ I hope _ .

~~~~~

It takes Everleigh thirty minutes to make it to the cold waffles awaiting her.  The girl moves into the open living area where I am seated at the overly large dining room table. As she pulls the cold waffles from the toaster, she leans against the counter and watches me. Her teeth crunching into the waffle, I don’t look at her, but I can feel her eyes studying me. I just close the computer in front of me.  

"Whacha doing? Reading another fan fic?" I smile and shake my head. I silently chuckle that  Evie is dressed almost identically to me. It’s rare I approve of her outfits, unable to shake the uncomfortableness I have with the girl’s desire to show as much skin as possible.

"No, I actually posted one I wrote," I state. I wanna be proud of it, but as an already published author I feel a little ridiculous writing something and posting it when it’s using someone else’s ideals.

"Cool,” she answers, her mouth slightly full of cold waffle. “So what's happening with novel two? The first one was a huge hit so they should be asking for a sequel, right?" Evie asks before taking another bite from the cold waffle and setting it down on the counter. Her back turning to me to pull a bowl from the cabinet and a quart of honey flavored Greek yogurt from the fridge. 

She scoops out three heaping spoonful’s in a small bowl that slop against the glass in a disturbing sound that is causes my mouth to scrunch up. Yogurt not being one of my favorite food choices due to consistency alone. Without noticing or caring for my clear disgust, the girl moves to the farmhouse table after grabbing her half eaten waffle and takes a seat across from me.

"I have a Skype meeting with the publisher next week on… Tuesday, I think," I answer trying to look away from the spoon of shaky goop rising from the bowl to her lips. Closing my eyes I think about getting the call about how quickly the first book sold. It had made it to a bestseller list and is short-listed for a few upcoming awards.

"You gonna quit teaching?" Evie probed further, but I shake my head. I couldn’t imagine leaving my teaching job.

"No, I could never leave my classroom,” I say. Then added,  “and gonna is not a word, Evie."

Everleigh smiled at the English teacher coming out in me to correct her language, but she wasn’t going to take it lying down. "If you are going to correct my grammar, at least do so in a complete sentence," she retorted with a smirk hinting in her lips and eyes. The comment brought a chuckle from me, unable to argue with the 17 year old’s point.

Before I can carry the conversation in another direction the cell phone on the table let out a  _ ding!  _ I recognize the sound immediately as an email alert. Opening the email, I can’t help how big my smile grows. "Hey, my story got a comment!" I tell Everleigh, opening the message. But the grin fell as I read the message.

The heading reading, Alex has left you a comment. Eyes scanning through the message, my excitement decreases substantially, "have you ever seen this show? this is really an awful depiction of the characters who never acted as poorly as you describe them."

Everleigh noticed the change in the woman, and asked, "What's wrong?”

When I don’t respond, the phone is ripped from my hand. My eyes jumping up and trying to get it back from the teen that seems to have lightning fast reflexes. It’s irritating that she’s stronger and faster. 

I can’t beat her. Residing myself to the fact she will read my first comment is depressing. While Evie read the message, her eyes grow dark, occasionally looking up her brows furrow and I see the irritation buried there.

"Fuck her. She's probably a troll," Evie tries, but her words held little weight compared to the criticism. I’ve received poor reviews before, but for some reason this one hurt more than any of those for the book.  _ Possibly, because it was the first response,  _ she justified.

To be honest, I don’t really know how to react. Shaking away the cloudy thoughts, I say,  "You don't know that the person is a her.” Then after a second of thought,I ask, “What do you mean troll?"

"Someone that just bashes someone else's writing," she explains as she puts her bowl in the sink.

With a point of a finger, I remind my kid, "Dishwasher, Evie.” I don’t look up to check, taking the water running as a sign the teen is following the command, so I focus on as I type out a response.

"Actually, I really love the characters of this fandom. I began writing this to give the villainous character more of a backstory. She will develop, but slowly. I teach this show as a long series work to my high school freshmen, and have spent much time analyzing her character in relationship to the others. I promise, you have seen little of the queen and she changes more once the other characters arrive." Pressing send, I wonder if the person would even get the comment.

Looking up at the girl that was clearly ready to leave, I nod. “Okay, baby. Let’s go.”

Everleigh rolls her eyes at the term of endearment, because she wasn't a baby. She leaves out the snarky comment about me haven’t never never known her as a baby. I know that the word just irks her a little. Neither of us acknowledge it though. This being a run for the past several years.

As we move into the garage and into the car, Everleigh asks, “Can we go to mall? I need eye liner.”

~~~~~

It's in the expensive make-up chain store that I get the next alert of an email. Opening my email the comment is not from a new reader, but a response from Alex the Troll.

> Alex has left you a comment: "the story you scribbled is worse than a five year old’s drabbles with practically no development. there is nothing but anger for everyone but the one mary sue. i doubt this can get any better since you seem to be all hope and rainbow while you ruin these characters"

My stomach falls at the second harsh critique, and internally I try to argue that the commenter is clearly not literate considering they didn’t bother to capitalize a single word. But the comment dug in like burrs of a weed. The tiny pricks causing a subtle itch that resonates and enhances the very insecurities that I try to hide. I consider the irony of being ready for war in the mirror this morning and when faced with a fight, I fold. 

Navigating to the Safari browser, I can’t help but click into the Fanfiction website and delete the story. Later. Later, I will redraft it and try again under a different title. Maybe then Alex  will leave me the hell alone. 

As I look up at Evie running the liquid sample over her second eyelid, I catch a glimpse of familiarity in the window behind the girl's head. Familiarity that causes the breath to leak through the holes that seem to have split open between my ribs.

After blinking several times and refocusing, I recognized Brandon’s figure without mistake. And with closer examination, I realize that he’s not alone. Rather, he’s with a girl. A girl whose fingers are interlaced with his. 

Without moving I examine the differences between us. Her tanned skin and the chocolate brown hair cascading down her back. This gives me just enough time to see her thin form press against his side as he laughs at her words. Her lips close to his ear, and then how she leans over closing the distance and kisses the man.

_ My man. _

Still staring, I hadn’t realized that Evie caught my line of sight. Hadn’t realized that she’s seeing the same thing that I am. Only the teen’s words, "Are you fucking serious?" called loudly through the store pull me from assessing how much more beautiful the woman is compared to me. To how small she looks pressing against Brandon.

No, my mind catches up and tries to move my feet. My feet that seem to have frozen to the tiles below me. I have to move though. I have to stop the teenager pushing through the crowded store towards the door.

I try to push through the crowd of teens and women, but they don’t give as easily as they had for Evie. The blockage makes it difficult to make it to the girl who is already outside of the store squaring up to the man that’s supposed to be her step-father in just six months.

Fresh air hits me as I pull my legs through the crowd. Two steps away, I lunge towards my daughter. Grabbing for her arm that is closest to me. Trying to pull her backwards. I catch her left wrist, but she is right handed and I am not in time. Not fast enough to stop Everleigh’s right hand that connects with Brandon's face.


	2. Chapter 2

~Alex~

Trying desperately to avoid being seen, I twist and jerk around the other people. There’s no escape though. Only another bodies blocking my path. _ Just a trip for a pair of running shoes. Just a quick trip to the mall for new pair of Nike’s.  _ I know better though. There are way too many groups of teens and parents pushing tiny screaming humans. 

Really just a pair of shoes shouldn’t even count as shopping. But nothing seems to be going my way today. I’m stalled again. Bodies bumping into me and a few people bouncing on their toes to see what's before us. I’m at least of average height and can see that the blockage is due to a screaming teen. She’s screaming at a man holding his jaw. A darker and somewhat older girl tries desperately to draw his attention from the teen screaming at him. 

I can’t decide if this is worth my time to invest in, but it's clearly some sort of story worth drama. Plus, it’s not like I can move in any pinche direction. So I watch the teen screaming like a sailor. Her rough voice not scratchy like most girls her age. 

It’s the gravely tone that makes my head tilt and my focus land on the dark hair blocking her face. She’s a student. A student from the school. I might have started mid year, but there was no not knowing the kid of a fellow teacher. The kid of a particular blonde teacher that could ruin a pair of boxer briefs with just her smile. 

Suddenly the scene became a little more interesting. Especially since the blonde of my dreams is there and she’s not in slacks and an overly large cardigan. No, she was causal and her jeans tight around curvy hips as her arms pull on the teen. She’s clearly trying to hold the girl back. 

But something clicks. The flashing ring on the blonde’s hand sparkled in the mall lighting as the girl…  _ Emma? Maybe. No, it was something different.  _ Doesn’t matter though, because the E was screaming at the man, “You cheating piece of shit never deserved her!”

It takes Greyson several moments to pull her daughter away. What blows me away is the way that throughout the entire event, the blonde’s focus lay solely on calming her daughter. The intense protective nature that she held for the girl that’s barely outside of their generation had me more interested in the woman. 

_ Beauty is one thing, but she loves that kid. _ Chest heaving a little, I can’t help wanting to be in a relationship that my partner can love as strongly as that.  

I start to move through the crowd. I want to help Greyson, even if it means just diverting Evelyn or Emmaline’s attention. Talking has never been my strong suit. Except in the classroom, but that’s different. It’s a protected space of authority. The only true sense of control that seems tangible. Here, there is no control. I feel my guts run away as Dilynn Greyson seems to win the attention of her daughter before she attacks the man with the other girl again. 

The Evony girl _ \- No, that’s from the succubus show-  _ and Greyson moves quickly away. Hurt blue eyes glancing back and my breath catches as I think she sees me. She keeps walking through without a smile and a loud beep pulls me away from the dissipating crowd. 

The beep of a text alert from the one person that can’t seem to get it through his dorky head that I’m not interested in going on a date with him. Opening the text, I read the message from the chemistry instructor. “Hey Trikru wanna go to Greyson's for pizza night on Wednesday.” I consider it. Leaning against the upper floor railing and seeing the blonde pulling the teen through the food court towards one of the many entrances. 

The phone beeps again, and look it over. “We can call it a date.” The man would not give up. No matter how many times I turn him down, he continues to try. Even when told that he had parts that were not appealing, he keeps trying with a wide grin that almost takes up half of his skinny face. 

Something is appealing about this text though. The part about being at the blonde’s home. The blonde who may be single now. Not that she would be interested, but still single ignites a small flame of hope within me. Me, the person that has no hope in humanity let alone a beautiful woman wanting the mess that is me.

_ “She’ll never want a freak like you _ ,” the part of me that still burns with self-hatred reminds me. Shattering the glass that guards the flame. Gripping the rail, I fight it a little. I know she’ll probably call me a freak. Knowing this helps me not be surprised by people’s cruelty, but the flame helps me wonder if Dilynn Greyson could be different.  

Someone bumps into me, and I almost drop my phone over the ledge. I glance over to see kids that could very well go to my school. One looks back at me, his huge nose with a subtle smirk let’s me know that they do infact go to my school. Juniors. Next year they’ll be mine though. 

I shake my head and laugh.  _ What are you going to do, give them more essays than the others next year after you forget about that one time they bumped into you.  _ Making headway to the sporting goods store, I can’t help the release of tension the sight of shoes and outdoor goods provides. The tension that built with hope. 

_ “Hope’s never been a safe place. Hope leads to heartbreak, and heartbreak is always the outcome, you idiot.” _

I want to try though. For some reason I don’t seem to buy into the bullshit of the words flooding my ears. I want to take a chance that maybe the blonde that adopted a kid more than half her age would understand.  _ Understand and accept me. _

With a new pair of fluorescent sneakers on, the confidence boost is undeniable. A look in the full length mirror shows a slim toned figure.  _ Not an unappealing package. _ The question was though if Greyson could handle what was concealed by the boyfriend cut jeans, and fitted black tank top. Running a hand under dark curls, the question consumes every thought. 

Finally I stop staring at myself to answer the salesperson that, “Yes, they are what I was looking for.” I look the dark haired boy over, and ask, “Can I actually get another pair in the same size, but can I get the purple and orange ones this time.”

“NBA fan?” the kid asks me, and I tilt my head a little. I’m confused as to his assumptions, and he seems to catch on. “The Phoenix team. Basketball is purple and orange. Oh! Are you one of those  dy… WNBA fans?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Probably trying to move past the fact he almost called me a dyke. “Did you hear they just signed that big shot from State? She’s supposed to be the best in the nation.”

I just stare at him. Finally asking, “Why would I know about this?” 

He stood a little straighter. His eyes measuring me, trying to figure me out. The answer not what I expect, and I find myself just wanting to leave. Just wanting him to get my shoes and stop making assumptions about me. “Most chicks that want those colors lately are the WNBA fans and play ball for the all girl’s team.” 

Shaking my head, I tell him, “Just get the shoes.” His feet don’t move, and I find myself staring him down. A rage within at his assumption of me based on my looks and the color of shoes I asked for. “Look kid, you know nothing about me so just get me the shoes and I won’t ask to speak with your manager.”

Taking the shoes off, I pick up my phone. I read though Jason’s texts a few more times and answer, “Still not a female, but I would be interested in pizza. I will meet you there. Just send me the address.”

Glancing back at the mirror, I wonder what the dress code for pizza is at the Greyson house. Besides some mild creeping on her, until the one day I realized she sported a diamond claim, I know nothing about the woman. Well, besides the adopted kid thing. And that my only friend on campus can’t stand the woman. Something about popularity and blondes, even though, Alma is blonde, bottle blonde but still blonde.

Phone dinging, I scroll through the email of subscriber notifications. All are various notices that authors had updated a chapter, but nothing that strikes my interest. As I look through the options, I wonder if maybe I was too hard on the last story I read. Maybe I should have phrased my comments a little more gently. 

I open the browser and try to locate the story so I can delete the comment, possibly before the author ever gets to see it. Searching I find nothing though. Lip sliding between my teeth, I worry that maybe I was too much of an ass. 

The sales kid holds out the box of my other shoes. I check the box, not trusting him to not intentionally screw it up. When it turns out he got it right, I nod to him with a set jaw and make my way to the registers. Phone still in hand and the boxes under my other arm balancing my new shoes on my hip. 

I twirl the phone once, twice. Then I get an idea. The idea may not be great but it's worth a try. I click the favorites and open up my contacts. There are not many but the one I need is under recent calls. Swiping over Alma’s name, I hear the dialing and after two rings there’s a few grunts and a groan. 

_ “Trikru, this better be important,” _ Alma’s gravelly voice comes through the speaker. I step forward and put my shoes on the small counter. A different kid checking me out, measuring me as I pull out the debit card from my wallet. 

I can’t help but smile though. Alma’s breathing tells me she wasn’t sleeping, and the sudden giggle from Marissa makes me think i interrupted her during sex. “Sorry, Ms. Wyatt did I interrupt,” I question with a slight formality to my voice. 

_ “Yes, you interrupted me making her scream my name, so what the hell do you want?”  _

Chest shaking slightly, I hand the boy my card and watch him slide it. As I sign on the pinpad, I ask the needed question, “Have you ever been to a Greyson pizza night?”

_ “Everleigh’s house?” _ Alma asks, and there’s a muffled moan from the other end of the line. I don’t get to answer.  _ “You called me to ask about Dilyan fucking Greyson didn’t you?! You fucking traitor.” _

Nodding to the kid, I take my card, receipt, and the large bag of shoe boxes. “Don’t be a jerk and just tell me what I wear to this form of event. I want to make a good impression.”

There’s a laugh from the other end of the line, and Alma tells me,  _ “The princess bitch is getting married you idiot. And I’ve only ever seen her with men.” _ I try not to internalize the burn of the comment. 

“Well, I’m not a chick and I am under good information to believe that she is in fact no longer engaged,” I answer. Frustrated that I may be the brunt of another one of her bad jokes, I snap at her a little. “Just tell me what to wear, or I’m coming over to interrupt the rest of your play time.”


	3. Chapter 3

~Dilynn~

It was two days before I can bare to do something other than lay in a ball on the shower floor or on the couch. I had choked on too much snot, and let the tears burn salty streaks into my cheeks. My body needed to move. Move it did to my laptop where I fight against a battle I know I can win. 

Fingertips beat against keys with a fury that only the pain of yet another loss can fuel. Blood shot eyes blink warily at the dimly lit screen, as vodka filled veins struggle to keep up with the words racing in circle around the story track within my mind. I try to focus on the words from the prior story but the booze inhibits reading and words spill from me for hours. 

I change and add and subtract. Adjusting the tense, the scene order, the anger. Adding so much anger, so much of my anger bleeding into the marysue like character, because  _ I’m not a fucking Marysue. I’m a motha fucking hero. _ I’m not a hero though. Realistically, I’m just the damsel that got played by the dick.

But quickly I realize that even though I dislike Alex the Troll, the person did have a point. There was an over concentration of anger into the protagonist making her appear more vicious and heartless than I initially intended. Rather than take the pain out, I choose to spread the pain more thoroughly, embedding the aching inadequacy into the fibers that built every being.

Irritated with the troll’s correctness, I move ideas around and try to rebuild. I give the villain a painful past, and her sister one even worse. When I get to the secondary protagonist, I attempt to create a problematic savior character. Struggle to build a character that could challenge notions of finite good and evil. Waivering in making this character not weak but not too heroic. Not when I felt nothing but weak. Weak and incapable of heroism.

Before I realize it, I channel every hint of betrayal found in mine and Brandon’s relationship into the black and white text. The character coming to life from simple descriptions to dense fleshy qualities that made her real. Too real. Too close to real because she is me. 

Every time I type the word “disposable” a part of me aches for Brandon to return. To come home and tell me what I need to do to be good enough. To tell me that I’m not disposable. 

Not for another girl. Another girl that’s  younger. That’s prettier. That’s better.  

But I know that even if he does come back, I can never restart that relationship. Not after Everleigh had raged at me for my incompetence. For my inability to see what’s clearly been noticeable to everyone else. Everyone but me. 

I try to rid my rage. Rid my pain through every character, every voice a piece of my soul. Everyone of the voices that echoed in the vast hollow of mind and down into the empty cavity of my chest. My heart having already exploded to leave nothing but emptiness. 

As my fingers move over the keys and the tears stream once more, tapping into the deepest well, I feel a release that weakens my resolve to even finish. But I need vindication now. I need someone to tell me that I’m doing well and to keep going. That I’m not disposable.

With three chapters completed, I log back into the fan fiction website. The red and white banner make the tears thicker, and the mucus in my throat denser. I stutter in the posting menu, unsure if this is the best plan. Knowing that I’m actually opening myself up again. Opening up for further rejection. But I also knew that this is how personal journeys began, and Brandon had pushed me Pushed me to face my new unknown. An unknown that would take me on a new path. 

And hope is all I have left. It’s weak, and a simple flicker of possibility, but still a light to guide me through the darkness that I’ve wallowed through within in this silent house for the past three days.

I post the work under a new title and add a tag reflecting that this is a rework of a previous story. Without previewing, I hit “post” just as the phone begins to play the obnoxious melody that is Everleigh’s and my first bonding song.

The goofy teenager's face popped up on the screen, and even through the sadness that had resonated with, the girl’s scrunched face with crossed eyes make me smile.

"Hey honey," I answer, trying to enunciate the words without slurring, as well as hide the loss. The same way I’d done after every time she pushed me to break. Pushed me to prove that I was good enough to adopt her.  

"Momma G! It's been fun visiting the brother but can I please come home now?" the raspy voice rings through the speaker loudly. The volume sending pains cracking through my skull. My buzz just beginning to wear off. I click the decrease volume button a couple of times, trying to focus on the girl’s request.

Everleigh requesting to come home after “visiting” her older brother at the local university that he’s studying was just a ruse to get her out of the house. “Visting” so that I could grieve the crumbling of my life without the girl having to try and support me. To give me time to drown my pain in the harsh burning liquid that I kept in the freezer.

Hands shaking and legs in worse shape, I try to pull herself up from the chair where my numb ass rests. I’m not in a condition that I can go pick up the girl, and was thankful that it was spring break so that neither of them were missing school/work. Or worse face the day to day of normality… not when it seemed like nothing was normal.

"Honey, I can't come pick you up until tomorrow," I answer slowly, knowing that the teen would know it means I’m drunk and unable to drive.

There’s only a few moments of steady breaths before Evie breaks the silence. "It's okay. I figured you would have burned through that vodka bottle.” The acknowledgement that I’ve been drinking with little moments of sobering clarity that led me back to the familiar bottle of pain relief. The clear bottle in my hand turns easily between my fingers. 

I knew the kid would know. Know that my weakness always lay at the bottom of a bottle, which I only really kept for when my mother would call. The scary thought I hold is that I know my weakness is the same as my kids. 

Another minute of silence. “If Tim can drive me, can I please come home?" 

My head drops back, but I try to write it when the room starts to tilt and the sloshing in my stomach is an all too gruesome understanding that I’m going to be sick. I’m already moving towards the bathroom knowing that I can't tell the kid no. The doors always open from anyone, making our home anyone that needed a roof.

I swallow the shame that if Evie comes home tonight, she will see the remnants of who I once was, and the self-destruction that’s not healthy for a kid still battling her own nightly demons. But fucking open doors. Open doors, that was what Greyson’s live by.

"I was trying not to slur," I finally confessed with a weak smile. The vomit is going to happen but not while I’m on the phone. 

"So… that's a yes then?"

With a sigh and process the knowledge that I have all but an hour to get into mom-mode. Mom mode for the kid that didn’t see me as a mother. Just a temporary keeper, even after the adoption finalization. But I’ll be there for the kid. I’ll be the person that I promised to be when I brought her home. Telling her, "Yes, honey. You are never banned from home.”

The phone beeps after squeal and a, “see you soon.” Evie having hung up and the beep just a notice that I am not longer on the phone, allowed me to process the email ding that came next. Hitting the email app, I see I have a comment, and the preview declares it as message from none other than Alex.

_ Are you fucking serious! _ I scream internally.  _ I just posted the three new chapters. How did they know that I posted already? _

Unable to handle more criticism at the moment, I don’t open the email.

Instead, I go through the bedroom and straight to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, I can’t stop the twisting in my stomach. I burn my esophagus with bile and vile vodka. Heaving until there’s nothing left, I wipe away the splatter from my face with a swipe of my hand. 

When my legs stop shaking, I stand in the narrow room. Stand before the same mirror that reminded me of why Brandon would search out something better. Each article of clothing removed. The three day old sweats and tank top, leaving me bare before the mirror. Eyes rimmed red made the shallow blue more vibrant than usual.

“What was wrong with me?” I move my gaze to the rest of my body.

I critiqued the flesh tones covering my torso. Hands coming up to cup under my breasts. They’re larger than the tanned girl's and hips larger. That girl was tall and a slim; slim like I had once been. But I’ve gained some weight since I started dating Brandon.  _ Maybe it had caused him to lose interest. _

Turning to the side I notice that my ass is wider and lower than it used to be. Everything seemed to stand out from a firm package. Covering my chest, I feel the shake of echoes about failing to keep his attention reverberating within. Accepting that I’m no longer the ideal woman for him. Vowing to start running again, I step into the hot shower.

The water is too hot for the warmth of the day, but I crave the scalding heat that make the pain physical. I want the water to burn away the remnants of the person I used to be. Using the loofa, I scrub roughly until every inch of skin is red and raw. Tears mixed with water wash down the drain and I hope to come out of this renewed.

The water turns cold, before I leave the stream having cried all of the tears possible I think again. Mixing them with water that settles around my ankles. Settles because of the clogged drain. The drain that refuses to let me empty anymore of myself. Refuses to function as needed, so I have to leave the shower to wash away the expulsion of snot that always accompanies tears. The ugliness of tears that the movies never show.

Sobered some, I pull on a pair of jeans and a grey  _ Fahrenheit 451 _ t-shirt. I take another glance in the mirror and there’s a different person staring back. I’m not sure what compels me, but I'm ready to face Alex the Troll. I head back to my computer and pull up the email. Taking a deep breath, I open the comment from Alex.

> Alex has left you a comment: "not going to lie, this one’s not much better. there’s not really enough to see if the characters are flat as cardboard again, and your english is atorish. do you speak the language or is this your practice playground? these characters are important and you write them as push overs. stop screwing it up and stay in character."

_ Did this bitch seriously just correct my fucking grammar? _

The comment only adds to the growing darkness that has begun to consume me. A darkness that causes my fingers to hit the keys and the delete button over and over again. I attempt to respond several times, but finally just walk away from the computer to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of strong coffee.

The Keurig gurgles behind me as I flip the sandwich in the pan. Watching the cheese melting from the sides of crusts of the bread and the harsh earthy scent of the single cup brew remind me of the years I spent as a Starbucks barista.

The thought making me realize that I actually already have the answer to Alex the Troll. And the anger that pulsed through my ears a moment ago was not the answer.  _ Kill them through kindness _ , my mind tells me, and I carefully plop an attack on Alex the Troll. The bread browning and I chew over each word I will use. 

Plating the grilled cheese sandwich, I move back to the table. Back the table and sit at the computer to type out a response, taking the time to devour half of my sandwich and take several sips of coffee. The words coming easier this time. Easier, but still needed several rewrites. In an effort to fight the losing battle of grammar issues and missed words, I reread my response out loud, checking for hidden errors.

“Thank you again for your critique of my story. I feel that it is comments like yours that will help improve my writing and story line. I understand your reservations about how I am choosing to take the characters in my story following the last episode of season two. I have felt similarly in many of the fandom pieces I have read; however, I also recognize it as author's choice. I feel though that I need to make a few suggestions to you as well. If you feel the need to comment on my use of the English language, then it would be less hypocritical to do so in a grammatically correct sentence, rather than a sentence fragment. (I teach high school English courses. I am very well versed in grammar rules). I realize my work contains typos, as I was overly excited to publish and have no support in regards to editing. If you choose to continue reading, then I look forward to further critique and slight snarky commentary. I will also be more than happy to reply and attempt to defend my decisions or admit to faltering and screwing up. Thank you again and best wishes to you this week."

_ Take that bitch, _ I say, and hit send.

Satisfied, I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Bringing the cup to my lips. Breathing in the fumes, I let just the scents awaken me before I put the sugary altered substance against my parted mouth. Letting the drink ripple over my tongue, I try to not be sad that it isn’t my chai tea latte but it hits the spot well.

I’m enjoying the cup and the silence. Most of the heaviness that the vodka provided is not dissipated. My mind eases knowing that Everleigh will not see me completely having lost it.  Well, that is until I hear another  _ ding! _

A part of me hopes that “Alex” did not respond. I’m not that lucky though because it is Alex and I can’t help when wonder,  _ What does she do sit at the computer waiting for me to respond? _

Opening the email I read:

> Alex has left you a comment: "my post isn’t for other people to read. you’re being lazy and that’s just rude as a reader. if you teach it, then take the time to respect your craft. also stay with the core of the character. that doesn’t change no matter what. some people don’t get what they want and have to make hard decisions but that doesn’t mean they change into ruthless human beings. i don’t think everyone will love or settle down but these characters deserve their happy ending.” 

The wording irritates the most literal part of my brain. "Um, you are writing for a reader. You're writing for me!" I yell at the computer screen. It doesn’t answer though.

"What are you yelling at?" Evie’s voice comes from the front door as the large lab runs to greet her. The dog jumps up and hugs the girl until she kisses the brown wet nose and hugs her back. Her fingers scratch just under the dog’s collar, who rewards the teen with a doggy smile. “You’re such a good dog, Anastasia.”

“Her name is Maleficent, and I am screaming at the troll," I tell the girl who has already moved down the hall to her room to drop her duffle bag.

The hall is short though, and she is back arguing with me, “One, we agreed that Anastasia was her first name and Maleficent her middle because we only use it when she turns into a dragon on shoes. Number 2,” and the punk actually holds up two fingers with a prevalent smirk, “Don’t. Feed. Trolls.”

I can’t stop my brows from scrunching, nor that I know she is right. I try to defend myself though, pushing the laptop towards her, I tell her, "Read this shit." 

"Wow," she mouths as she reads. Picking up the remnants of my sandwich, Evie chews as she reads. "Hey! You stole my line!" she said. Her finger taps the screen and is looking up at me biting my lip to hold back the laughter at being caught a thief.

I don’t acknowledge her statement. Pulling the computer back to me, I glance over the comment again. "I think I am going to correct the paragraph and post it back to them." 

But Evie just shakes her head, "Fuck her, Greyson. Just write the next chapter.” The last name hitting the target as usual. The teen moving back to student-teacher mode whenever angered with me. I try to deflect the blow, but I have no shields left so I just listen as she reminds me again, “You can't feed trolls."

I put on my best pouty face, but know the girl’s right. Closing the laptop, I turn to her and realize that I hadn’t looked her over probably since she entered because in her hand is a plastic cup with green logo. A chai tea latte just the way I want it, and I take it faster than I probably ever opened presents on Christmas as a child. 

After a subtle moan of ecstasy, I confess. “You were right you know?” It’s a whisper as I stand pulling her too me. Her hair wild brown locks covering most of my face. “We didn’t need him.”

Evies’s arms squeeze tightly around my shoulders. Her hand holding the back of my neck. It’s almost too hard not to cry. Finally, we move into the living room, where Evie puts on a damn Disney mother-daughter relationship film, but at least it’s not the one where the mother is a witch and daughter a stolen orphan. That’s one blow I still haven’t really gotten over. As the film plays, I can’t help but think Evie is telling me that we need to work on mother daughter communication.

~~~~~

Evie went to bed relatively early but sleeping still doesn’t come easy. The bed feel foreign now, even though it was mine before it was ours. Without anything else really to do, I grab my computer and search for mattress stores. Tomorrow, I am getting a new bed. The thing is mattress shopping on line kinda sucks.

With little logic and the rawness of all the pain still present, I set to work on something that was just supposed to be for fun. Weak light of some reality show plays in a marathon, providing background sounds to the incessant typing. During the movie, I received some much needed positive feedback, but I still had to prove myself worth to the troll, and that could only be done by proving the troll wrong. 

I can’t help but hope as I post the story that I will hear from Alex. My computer still lying open as a just in case. I also make a point to check that my phone is not on silent. Glancing over the screen, I realize that if Evie hadn’t of called me, then no one would know I’m alone. 

Mulling over the reality that besides my writing and my kid, the only other people I really communicate with is Alex the Troll. Something settles in me, like a lightening bolt strikes a fire that begins to build. I love being Evie’s pseudo mother, but I also miss having a life. I can’t just wall myself in, because… maybe that’s why Brandon wants this other girl. Maybe she is more fun, and lively and like goes places. 

The next person that asks me out, I’m resolved to go. I’m going to live, and this will show Evie that we can’t let significant other’s break us down. Like Alex the fucking Troll. There is no way that I’m letting Alex get the best of me. 

I check my email, wondering if maybe it’s just being slow to process. Nothing though. With a huff I push the phone away and flip through channels to reruns of 90s family classics. The familiarity of voices that surrounded much of my childhood eases my worry.

Blinking at what must be a different episode, because I don’t remember is being Halloween in the one I just watched, I realize I must have dozed off. The blinking of my phone though signals what woke me. At 12:16am, Alex the Troll is up and… nice-er?

> Alex has left you a comment: "pains me to admit it’s getting better."

There is not helping the first genuine smile in several days spread over my exhausted face. My hands shoot up, arms shaking in the air, while my feet kick the bed a little. Nothing short of a wiggle dance in bed. Bare legs tangle in the sheet, and the comforter somehow gets kicked from the bed as I cry out softly, "Success is mine.”

Glancing back at the screen, I contemplate what to do. Struggling with whether it’s best to respond like a girl expecting a phone call from a hot something something, or if that would be too desperate. Then I realize this is Alex the Troll, and even more so, it’s stupid to play games like the whole waiting to answer.  

Deciding to answer and actually answering though are significantly different things. I mean yeah, I can answer… just with what. The troll is clearly trying not to be rude… but I really want to poke a little. I mean Alex does not get to go from ass to prince, or princess, in a day. Not allowed. 

And with tapping fingers, poking is what I do, "Wow! I was expecting a verbal lashing! Thank you." Satisfied with the quippy retort, I tuck the computer away. There is no need to continue to wait for an answer. It’s clear that Alex’s not abandoning me anytime soon. Like Brandon did. 


	4. Chapter 4

~Everleigh~

She doesn’t think I can hear her but I know she is still crying. I wish she understood how thin the wall is between our rooms, but at the same point she’s rich and would fix it. And if she fixed it then I wouldn’t know that she’s hurting. I won’t know when I push too far, scream too much, or hurt her too badly. 

I roll over and check my phone. It’s brighter than the moon light, making my eyes squint. Landon’s smile flashes on the screen, and I wonder if he’s awake. He’s probably sleeping and Casey is probably out too. Everyone always seems to be sleeping when life is coming a part. My fingers run over the raised skin on my hip, wondering if Greyson is in as much pain as I once was. 

With a heavy breath, I weigh whether I should check to make sure she isn’t drinking again. That means showing her I’m awake though, and if she is drinking maybe she will finally break. But if she’s not awake, she needs to be laying on her side. Worries and what if’s play in my mind. Each edged with the fear of possibility that I could be alone again if anything happens to her. Or if she has just had enough.  

A squeal through the wall has me sitting up. My phone is black on the white night stand but I pick it up anyways. I consider sending her a text to tell her to playfully to stop squealing. My finger sliding over the screen but not settling on the open message with Greyson. Instead choosing Landon.

Mind finding a new topic to worry over, I consider my plans with Landon. The party that will probably turn sleep over when everyone gets too drunk to function.  _ Maybe Landon will be okay if we stay in.  _ I mean it’s not like I’m going to drink anyways. The most that could happen is spending the night with Landon’s arms around me.  _ Maybe, I should be here for her just like she’s always there for me.  _

“I was thinking,” and I hit send before I actually finish the sentence. He doesn’t answer right away and I have to accept that if he’s sleeping he won’t answer me until morning. I keep texting though,  “Going out tomorrow may not be good. Momma G isn’t looking too great.”

He answers rather quickly, “She’s not going to give you back.” I’m grateful he’s awake but hate that he pegs why I can’t sleep in just one sentence. 

“What if I pushed him away?” It’s not like I have ever been nice to the dude. Even when he was my counselor I gave him as much attitude as possible. 

It’s barely a minute before the phone is vibrating in my hand and I am answering it. Whispering so she can’t hear that I’m awake, I tell him, “It could be all my fault and I then what if he comes and tells her that it was me so she realizes that she lost him because of me and then she doesn’t want me anymore. They could put me back in the group home or worse a fucking foster home that like locks the bedroom doors and shit so if theres a fucking fire I will burn to death-”

“You should probably breath before you run out of air and die,” Landon’s groggy voice states, interrupting the word vomit of fears and insecurities falling from me. 

I cough, choking on the emotion guarded so carefully within. The heaviness of my limbs undeniable relaxing with his sarcasm. Low voice, telling me, “She loves you openly. You know that too, that’s why you push her. You continuously need to try and give her a reason to send you back.”

He pauses just long enough to make me chew on his words. Think about the number of times I screamed in her face, spit covering her as I told her each and every way she was a shitty parent. Even though she wasn’t. She couldn’t be a better mom in fact. 

“You want to show her you’re in this, try calling her Mom. You know it would mean the world to her.” More truth to large to swallow that I feel my lungs screaming for air as I hold my breath. Hold it in and let the room tilt a little, because if I do as he says....

_ If I give her that position…  _

_ If she changes her mind…. _

“If she dies…” the poignant silence hanging at the unfinished sentence. Unable to say it, but I tell Landon why I hated Brandon. I tell him why I couldn’t accept him. “If she kept him and she died, then I would belong to him. But now… now… I would belong to no one. Or worse Dr. Greyson.”

There’s a snort on the other end of the phone. His rough voice laughing at the mention of the Grandmother beast. “I doubt they’d let you live with Momma G.’s, psycho kill the adopted granddaughter, mother.” 

Neither of us acknowledge that next of kin psychology doesn’t mean much when the state doesn’t want to pay for a kid’s care. There’s no stopping the flashing memories of Mom’s husband’s hands. My body still jumps at the failing of fists that haven’t touched me in the two year’s I’ve been Greyson’s.

“Want me to read to you?” Landon asks. I wonder if he knows the places that I can go. That sometimes I can be looking at him, but he’s not really there because I’m so lost. 

I nod to his query before realizing he can’t see me. Softly I verbally answer, “yes.” The single word so heavy, but I get it out.  

His words are slow and well enunciated. Poetry flowing through the line like water as he reads his own work. His nightly writings. Each word heavy and shapely enough to move in waves that caress my mind away from rocks and cliffs. Sharp edges tantalizing as the siren’s voice calls to me. 

But Landon’s voice shifts the tide. My mind moving from fear and pain of being an unwanted bastard to protecting my life line. Protecting the woman that gave up her life for me.

Soft waves lulling me to sleep as I promise the stars flickering behind my lids that next time I’ll give her date a chance. Vowing to protect her from not only anyone hurting her but from my very own fears. Shield her from my anger. 

The heaviest promise of all though I open my eyes to promise to the full moon staring in my window. The words accompany my tears so quietly I don’t even think Landon hears me over his waves, “She’s my mom, and I need to make her know it.”

~~~~~

With a mild throbbing in my head, I wake to the high pitched bird screaming outside my window. The phone is practically stuck to my face and I know I must have an indent in my face. Groaning and throwing up a middle finger to that fucking bird, I pull myself from the bed and pad on heavy feet to the bathroom. Eyes still shut and hands somewhat waving before me I keep from walking into a wall or the dresser. The movement taking longer than the seven feet to the door really should, I finally make it with a huff and pleasant feeling of release pressure. 

It’s on the toilet that I finally cracks her eyes enough to glare at the overly bright screen. I open the message from Casey and smile at my best friend’s middle finger. Clearly she is feeling the same about this morning as I am. I know though that her parents will have her going to church or something to try and pray away the gay. 

“Sucks to be you,” I tell her. 

It’s a moment later that Casey answer me with another middle finger, the comment added saying, “All your fault for being loud.” I can’t help the smirk of being the reason she was outed. Greyson hadn’t cared at all about our short lived trist. Casey’s parents, not so okay with walking in thinking to find their daughter and her best friend being attacked, not two fingers deep within me as I screamed because I thought that’s how to show a girl that she’s doing a good job. 

I get off the toilet and decide that quiet means I don’t actually have to be up yet. The thought of getting to sleep more is rather appealing, so I move quickly back to bed. Letting the comforter hang halfway off the bed, because it’s warm enough to go without it.

Face in the pillow, I take deep breaths. The peach vanilla fabric softener calming me back to rest. Rest that is interrupted by feet slapping against the tile floor. Claws click with each foot step, and suddenly my door is pushed the rest of the way open.

I can’t even turn to see what she is excited for. I can’t move because her feet must have left the ground. Her squishy body flopping down on me so hard that I choke on the air that is running out of my throat like someone yelled fire in a movie theater.  

A grunt of annoyance comes out with the last wisp of breath. It’s difficult to process what Greys- Mom is saying. Her voice an octave higher than usual. 

“-Sequel…” my chest fills again as she rolls some. Her body flipping over me so she is leaning against the windowed wall next to my bed. “Email…” she starts again, her feet kicking the bed and hands coming to squish my face. “They want a sequel!”

Words finally process in my sleep bound mind. I lean against her, my face pressed between her collarbone and breast. Her arm comes over my shoulders and she holds me. Her grip tight as she kisses my head, and I hug her. Eyes closed, I hold her as tightly as she holds me feeling completely safe. 

“You did great, Mom.” The word a little forced, but I feel her chest freeze but the sound of her heart seems to be beating overly fast. Faster than even when she had just been running.

She doesn’t say anything though. Her lips just pressing against my forehead harder. Her second arm coming up and holding me that much tighter, and I know I couldn’t have given her anything better than this moment. 

~~~~~

I beg for seafood. The new cajun place by the football stadium looks promising and I’m excited that Grey- Mom agrees to it after we get pedicures. It’s at the table that her phone is dinging again.  

The crayon in my hand is my primary focus, coloring the crustaceans and looking up occasionally at the chick situated just behind Mom. I’m pretty sure the lady is the political science teacher for seniors. She’s scary as all hell, but she’s there alone. I consider signalling Mom to invite her over, I mean if she’s going to be my teacher I better be on her good side so I can get an A, but Mom’s laughter makes me forget for a second. 

Raising my eyebrows at the sound the waitress returned to the table, placing the tin buckets of our food before each of us. "What's up?" I ask.

Shaking her head, she hands me the phone. I take my time reading through all of her messages. Each seem to get a little more flirty and a part of me wants to puke at the thought of Mom having an internet romance with a troll. I read though the last message, and swallow the bile. 

> Alex has left you a comment: "i’m sure youll give me a reason to complain soon enough. i mean you still haven’t edited much but at least there’s some enticing promise of smut."

I tilt my head and study her. She’s twisting at the bag her crablegs came in. Her face scrunches and I appreciate she will take me for seafood even though she doesn’t actually like spicy or fish really. I’m not sure what else to say, but come up with,  "Why are you poking trolls?" I try not to sound like a jerk and just play with her. 

"I don't think they are a troll,” she says, cracking open the shell of a crab leg, and then rubbing her face when fluid shoots up. “I… And I just want to prove them wrong and screw with them for being a jerk face earlier," I wonder if she is  justifying her actions more for herself than me, but I watch as she straightens her neck and pushing her shoulders back.

"Sooo what are you going to say?" 

Busting into my crawfish, I watch her thinking. The wheels clearly spinning in her mind, she picks the phone up from the table and types. She hits send before handing me the phone back to approve what she wrote. "Ha! Aww, there you are! I thought I lost my harshest critic. Welcome back. BTW, I still despise your sentence fragments and run-on sentences. Do you even know how to use the shift button? :)"

I glance back to the woman at the table. Deciding to be a little brave, I nudge Mom. Nodding with my head, I ask, “Doesn’t she work at school?” Her eyes scan over the single guest occupying the table behind us. I have to admit the tall lithe brunette looked much less scary when  casually dressed. Well, except for the intense combat boots laced partially up her legs and eyes focused on the large phone screen. 

Tearing her eyes from the back of the person, Mom just shakes her head. Quietly, telling me that nope we are not doing it. We are not inviting her co-worker to come sit with us. “Alma’s friend.”

“She’s my coach,” I remind her. My head shakes again, as I ask, “Are you two ever going to get over your little feud?” 

She’s breaking open another leg, still shaking her head. There’s no answer, and I wonder if now she is hoping not to be noticed. That seems to end with the phone  _ ding! _ alerts her again.

Her fingers fumble with the wet wipe, and I just laugh into my food. Eyes still watching the way my coach’s friend places the phone on the table and starts playing with the food in her bucket. 

Mom’s screen is in my face then. Its waving so I use my dirty hands to hold her phone still and read, “Alex has left you a comment: ‘Happy to make your day.’”

My eyes roll and I push the phone out of my face. I try to remember my promise but seriously it’s an online troll that is probably like sixteen. I tell her though, "She's flirting with you, Momma G."

I forget my vow to call her mom for a moment, but she is so wrapped up in the online interaction, I wonder if she would notice my back sprouting purple wings or something. She’s laughing though, and I watch the way her eyes run over the message repeatedly. I can only hope that this doesn’t last long and maybe she meets a real human to act stupid over.

Her face flushes, and I watch her carefully. Her eyes are back to her food. It takes me a moment but I realize she is picking at it more. Her excitement dwindling, and I know that look. Her look of self doubt that resonates when she feels she’s ordered too much food. Clearly this flirtation is getting her mind going, and I wonder if she is ready to date yet.

My eyes scan over the teacher behind her. Something hits me and I feel like this is something I should have realized a long time ago. Mom has pretty much no friends. She either works with people like those few teachers that come to family pizza nights, or she had Brandon. Brandon was who she met because of me. 

We’ve talked before about the type of person she dates. Mostly men, but there were a few women. My lip enters my lips and I just have to gawk at her for a minute. Suddenly it falls out of my mouth, “You have the hots for my coach, don’t you?”

I’m loud but I can’t help but think I have things figured out. Her wide eyes shoot back to where Coach Alma’s friend sits. They are back on me though and I swallow as she fumbles over her words. “I… not Alma. She’s beautiful and intimidating but no.”

Mom’s head turns again but the teacher is up and walking away. I watch her eyes follow the ass of her coworker, before she is shaking her head and hitting it against the tin bucket in front of her. A small red line marking her forehead as she covers her face with her hands. 

Peeking through her fingers, she whispers, “That one though… I don’t even know a name but I think beautiful is the best descriptor.”

I tilt my head again. Fighting the smile playing on my lips, I bite into my lip. My body leans over the table and I reach for her hand. Pulling it from her face, I just look at her for a moment. Her heart shaped face and the warmth in her blue eyes. Eyes that should be cold but are so full of life.

“What are you scared of?” I don’t get why she can’t see how pretty she is.

Mom’s fingers come up and she picks at her the skin on lower lip nervously. Her eyes flick back to the door that the teacher left through already. Cheeks still flushed, she admits, “It’s too soon. No one even knows that Brandon… I’m single.”

Calming my own breathing, I study her and then the tin decorated walls around her. I want to know what to say, but all I can do is change the subject. "Can we go see the new animated film?" 

I pull out my own phone and try to check the time. Mom seems to know I have no answers for her, so she returns to her food. Simply answering, “Sure, baby." 


	5. Chapter 5

~Dilynn~

My keys fall to the entry table and I haven’t even set my purse down before Evie retreats to her room to prepare for going to her friend’s party with her boyfriend. 

Looking over a photo of the two of them from a year ago, I can’t help but remember the night she snuck out to go to a party. She didn’t trust me enough to ask me, and I cried and cried and cried believing she has run away. When she did come home she was drunk and her clothes reeked of skunky weed. 

I still remember the way I held her. Just relieved that she was home, and she seemed to freak out over it. Shaking my head, I retreat to my own room to doll down, unable to stand where the kid had screamed, her spit hitting me in the face. 

Yoga pants and a loose tank seem like appropriate. I close my eyes and think about how Evie changed after that night. Her abuse seeming to lessen for the most part. Her voice having been heard and her rights to attend parties still intact under conditions. As I turn the corner though, I feel the need to reiterate our agreement even though it’s been two years. 

“No drugs!” I call out. 

There’s a groan, and I can picture the eye roll, but she echoes, “No drugs!”

“Call if drunk,” I add. 

Her head peeks around the wall. Hair twisted in the curling iron as she says, “Call if I need a ride because I drank.”

Settling at the table with laptop open and busily working on trying to find inspiration from the blinking line on the blank page, I chew on my cheek. The flashing line painfully irritating. For a few moments I consider how I wrote the first damn book. 

Concentration gets all jumbled though when the large bulky boy-man walks through the front door. The open door policy makes our house a safe place for all; however, it’s still slightly awkward when former students burst through the door at all hours of the day.

“Hey, Greyson,” he greets. Looking up I still see the hints of when he was just 14 years old. His eyes welling as he told me about the girl in his class that just seemed hurt. He’s grown so much since then. Now just shy of six feet, but his voice is soft and deep. It betrays the gentleness of his being that hides behind the football player statue.  

“Hey Landon.” The smile that I give him is a little forced, and his matches. His dark eyes show me he knows, and there’s no reason he shouldn’t. Landon’s always been there for Evie, and truthfully, I can’t ask for a better person to keep track of my girl when she’s out. 

Evie’s footsteps draw my eyes from Landon. I try to help the grimace, but I can’t. My lip curls as I shake my head and just point to the room. There is no way in hell my kid is walking out of this house with only her bust and crotch covered.  

“At least a shirt that meets the shorts, please,” I tell the teen who looks down at her outfit.

She taps her generous abdominal muscles. “But…” Evie begins to argue but stops. She must notice the no in my eyes. So even though I had framed the statement as request, Evie knows it’s a command.

Grunting in displeasure, the teen moves back down the hall. Leaving Landon alone with me again. He takes a seat at the head of my table. Not wanting to be rude, I close my laptop give give the boy my full attention.

“How’s life, Land? Last we talked your mom wanted you to go to a ROTC camp this summer.” I fight the shiver at the thought of Imara Woods. The woman straight backed and tight bunned. A stern army colonel, or something with a title. 

“She wants me to legacy and go in as an officer. Arranged some meeting with her Colonel so he will write me letters of rec for West Point. Just the same shit, different day.” but as the words leaves his mouth he looks up wide-eyed. “Sorry Greyson. I meant same stuff, different day.” 

I can’t help but laugh that this boy spends has heard me swear at least four times a sentence on numerous occasions, yet he still trips over the words. “You know fuck is my favorite word right?” 

Landon smiles but looks at the table. “My mom would…” his words fade off a little, and I reach over to hold his forearm. A simple connection to let him know I get it. 

Before I can probe further though, Evie reemerges with a pale green top that covers her stomach and bust, but not much more. I sigh, partial defeated, but there is only so many ways to fight this battle. I wave them away and she knows but she’s pushing it, probably to see if I’ll break while she’s gone. 

Evie kisses my head before taking Landon’s hand, who has pushed himself up from the chair. He waves silently as he leads the girl from the house.

Reopening the computer, I pull out the story plan for the sequel that I had worked on a few weeks ago. Opening the new document, the cursor blinks at me once more. 

The blinking turns to taunting.

The taunting turns to the opening of the fanfiction site.

Opening the fanfiction site turns to two hours of reading through other’s writing.

Finally, after reading the same stories with different authors, I realize it’s time to write a chapter for my own story. A small sliver of hope lays in that if I get this done maybe I can get a rise out of Alex.

~~~~~

The chapter takes about two hours. Two hours to get out another 2000 words, but during those hours I add to the plot line for the sequel that would make me money rather than online comments. Feeling a sense of pride, I post the new chapter without previewing. My finger pulling back with satisfaction settling over my lips. A satisfaction short lived due to the knock coming from the door, and dog attacking the door at the unusual alert.

Checking the phone, I realize how late it is. Glancing at the window, I take in how dark the March evening had become and the lack of street lights made it so even if I did look out the front window, I wouldn’t be able to see much. I know whoever’s at the door is not a friend or family because they would’ve just walked in.

_ Who the hell comes to someone’s house at 9 at night?  _ And I can’t help but worry that this maybe the beginning of a horrible murder plot. Single woman. Home alone. With an unlocked door.  _ Yep, definitely the ideal home for a serial killer to strike. _

I pull a knife from the wooden block next to me, like I would be able to use it if someone attacked me. Though there is no other option, so I approach the door. Looking through the peephole, I’m grateful for the porch light on outside, revealing the tanned face of the girl who had locked lips with Brandon only four days prior. 

Gripping the knife, I throw open the door like a crazed psycho. Taking a deep breath, I lock eyes with the brunette with nothing but ‘I dare you to fuck with me,’ plastered across my face.

The woman is smiling, until she sees the knife. Then the dark brown orbs grow wide and she slowly raises her stupidly thin arms up displaying her empty hands in the air. 

Silent tension creating a new wall separating us. Eyes scanning each other. Sizing the other up for who she is. How we play into the grander scene in each’s lives. The silence breaking when the  _ other  _ woman spoke, “Whoa buddy, I am not here to start shit.”

Knife angling towards her, I hiss, “You kissed my fiancé. I’m not your buddy.” Eyes attempt to kill the woman telepathically. But failing. Just like I failed to keep him pleased. Irritation and inadequacy becoming more than just a feeling but taking over the few growing embers of success. Body heavy, I breath out the deadly carbon dioxide with the question,  “What the fuck are you doing at my door?”

“I am sorry,” she begins. Stopping though when I don’t move. Don’t relax, just stand still and stare into the person that I swear can’t be older than Evie, but Brandon’s a youth counselor. He wouldn’t fuck a teenager.  _ Would he? _

And then the girl’s speaking again, “I came to make peace with you. I’m Raven. Raven Reyes.” Hand out stretched in a casual greeting. Well the hand shook a little, but it’s connected to an irritatingly thin arm that has my upper lip twitching slightly.

Eyebrows cinched together in the middle, I spit at her, “I don’t need peace with you. I have no ties to you, next to the fact that we have been sharing the same dick for who knows how long.” Particles of saliva fly from my mouth, but sadly don’t make it to the girl on the doorstep. It’s a shame since I may have gotten some satisfaction from spitting on her then. Instead I just look like an angry drooling golden retriever.

The woman, Raven, starts to open her mouth, but I holds up my free hand to stop her, “I don’t want to know. I already scheduled my STD test, because who knows where you have been or who else he has been sticking it in.”

Raven leans back some. Head tilts just a little, and for a moment it seems like she is about to get angry. “Wow,” Raven responds, as her look of shock spreads in a annoyingly disarming smile. “You have fire.” And then, “I like you more than I thought I would.”

It’s my turn to look in shock as I expand my gaze to the girl on my porch. _ What the fuck was this woman on? _ Looking for any sign that she may be high, drunk, or tweeking.  

“Well, I can’t say I feel the same,” I quit rudely respond back.

The woman’s brown eyes look hurt and, for a second, a very very tiny second, I feel guilty. A second before the flash of this woman kissing Brandon returned to the forefront of my mind. 

_ Oh yeah, I hate her. _


	6. Chapter 6

~Raven~

When faced with a shitty situation the only thing really to do is to lie. The truth is overrated anyways. Honestly,  _ ha!, _ telling Dilynn fucking Greyson the truth will not accomplish anything that her seeing us at the mall hadn’t already done.

“I didn’t know about you.” _ Lie _ . Her eyes narrow into practically slits, and I wonder if maybe tonight my struggles end. One step back gives me at least a little more distance. Her back straightens though. 

“He told me I was his one.”  _ Lie again.  _ I was never going to be his one, and at some point in four days I realized how stupid I was to think he would ever give  _ her _ up for me. I mean seriously even in chill clothes she’s the right proportion of curves to muscle. 

A comfortable place to land. 

Swallowing, I try not to get caught measuring her. Weighing her worth in looks alone. Her eyes open though and she’s staring at me. Studying me again, and I worry her extra sense is lie detection. If so, I’m fucked. All I have are lies to get me in that door. 

An open door. He said he learned it from her. And if anyone needs an open door to a house with a roof that punta is me. I glance back at the borrowed truck, trying to remember the story I’d prepared for this. 

No preparation could prepare me for the way her eyes are red and blue. The defeat etched into the little ceases barely beginning to form at the corners. Creases from laughing once upon a time before I actively choose to ruin her life. 

She’s still waiting, but its seems the spit and fight that she had only minutes prior has evaporated in the darkening light. Waiting for me, and more of my twisted tales to make her feel less stupid at being played. 

“We met three years ago.”  _ Wait, that’s the truth. Fuck!  _

There’s a fall in her stature, and I wonder if she’s still breathing. Her eyes close and head tilts to the side a little. The knife waves to and fro at her side. It’s her chest that gives away her internal struggle. Her breasts shaking just enough to suggest she is holding onto it. 

Blinking, I look down at her feet and then back up at the stucco over hang. The eerie porch entry on the unlit street. Just the soft glow from the porch light highlighting a few cobwebs around the top of the door. One of the spiders rests quietly in wait of prey, the black body vibrant against the beige stucco. 

I can’t turn back now from the partial truth I gave her. Biting into my lip, I can feel her pain rolling off of her and crashing against me. Like for some reason we were connected and I can’t shake away her emotional upheaval. While lying was the plan, I decide that maybe the best lie is to just manipulate the truth.  

“He had an apartment. We moved in together, and lived a pretty quiet life.”  _ Truth. _

“I thought he was working at the shelter when he wasn’t home.”  _ Lie,  _ but the roll of her eyes suggests she’s buying it. She probably thought the same thing. But then, Brandon had quit that job at the shelter two years ago. 

“I thought he was getting ready to propose.”  _ Sorta a lie.  _ The only difference, I didn’t think he would. I hoped he would. 

Her pale skin flushes up her neck and settles in her forehead. Not a cute blush, but a look a impending rage. Like she was about to boil internally until she explodes bits everywhere, which normally would be pretty damn cool for me. 

But not now. 

Not today. 

I’m trying to plot my next words. The neurons in my mind firing as fast as possible. Searching for more words to make her see me as just like her, just younger and with less stuff. 

She moves first though. Backwards, just a few steps. Sets the knife down on the table and proceeds to yank and twist the engagement ring from her finger. Tears falling from her eyes as the skin on her hand brightens and the metal twists around her knuckle. It comes off and she waivers a little off balance. 

Holding it in two fingers, she looks to examine it. Though this doesn’t last long, and her head rises slowly. The oceans of her eyes replaced with crystallized pale sapphires that turn me momentarily to stone. Unable to move or even breath under her stare. A silent drizzle of tears and steady face seem to create the calming eye of her internal storm. 

The weight of her silence only tightens the hold on my chest, my heart fighting to break free. Everything within dying with her silent pain for just a moment in time. A moment where the arbitrary limits of a clock stops counting the way the rhythm demands. An immeasurable expanse of shared fragile existence speeding up only when the dead air seems to come back to life, whipping my ponytail around my ears and face. 

The dust lifts into the air as though her bellow is the very source that all wind comes from, “Well he is all yours.” Apparently she doesn’t just give me Brandon though. With a flick of her wrist, the ring twirls through the air in my direction. I snatch it in mid air in a fist with less than a second to think about it. 

Not judging the weight of the action, I size up the ring. The the rock isn’t much, only worth a hundred bucks, maybe. Really that’s like food for three months if I don’t let it burn a hole in my pocket. I glance over my shoulder at the truck and briefly wonder if Lorraine is still at the pawn shop on 35th. She’s the least likely to screw me over.  But then, I look up at the blonde in front of me. Her glare of dissatisfaction makes me wish I would have just let it drop. Give her a win, since I broke her heart.  

Word begin to slip meaninglessly from my lips. “I don’t want him… I left him too… I-“  The practiced speech from the car ride disappears. The excuses going out the window until I’m blubbering and I might as well take my ass back to the truck and find a place to park for the night.  

“Look I need you to know-” apparently nothing because some teenybopper tune starts playing within the safety of the walls. The pop annoyance of the over played radio song blares from somewhere dragging Dilynn’s attention from where I stand. Without saying a word, Dilynn turns from the door. I shift from foot to foot because the door is wide open. 

Wide open for me to just walk in. I’m not sure.  _ What if it’s not for me? _ Too many questions.   leaving it open to me. Taking this as a sign that I’m allowed to enter, I take it. After all, if I second guess it, I may be on that porch all night.  And I’d been on that porch for what felt like forever, and even longer on Dilynn’s street, sitting in Jefe’s truck. 

The room is huge, and everywhere I look it feels like a magazine. The furniture matched, orange and teal accents pull the room together against the dark leathers and woods. The open space that joins the kitchen, the living room and dining room is bigger than Brandon’s apartment as a whole. I can’t help but wonder why he ever stayed with me. I mean clearly he had all this around. And the blonde, while she’s older than me, is not in the least unattractive. 

Dilynn answered her phone, turning her back to me, “Hey E, what’s up?”

I don’t want to pry, so I focus my eyes on the wall closest to the door. I keep my distance ,just encase she wants to chase me out. At least I’m between her and the knife. Taking inventory of the table, I make a list of things that make up Dilynn’s life. Key ring pretty vacant of anything more than a leather key chain with her last name, a prius key fob, and two or three business keys. My eyes trail the rest of the empty table and then up the wall. 

The empty nail head protruding from the wall over the table where the knife lay is a haunting reminder of how fresh the wound is for the blonde. Something is growing and twisting within, wrapping around my stomach until I almost double over and puke right there over the table and the entryway of the house. My eyes falling back to the knife. The huge ass knife that she could have used to gut me with and simply called it trespassing. Just another homeless brown girl with just a name. 

She sounds almost like she is growling into the phone, but maybe I’m just waiting for her to explode. Trying to stop the bile rising, I focus on the picture still on the wall and try to avoid the whore staring back at me from mirror. The pictures are all of the blonde and a younger brunette. The kid that four days ago had become more real than the photo he had had on his night stand that first month. 

I glance over the whore’s shoulder in the mirror and watch the blonde. Her shoulders slumped, and their is an audible sigh of displeasure. Evie, the daughter, must be pissing her off. Brandon always said the kid was a pain in the ass. 

“Yes, honey, you can stay over. Please be safe and if you decide to…. Just use a condom okay.” As Dilynn turns towards the table, her hand holds the chair so her profile is visible. The grimace comes across the woman’s face as she says the word condom. She doesn’t appear to have the wear and tear of a teen mom. Brandon hadn’t ever mentioned the kid’s age, just the name in frustration.  

I look back at the photos trying to find any family resemblance between the two females, but there was nothing. No similar bone structure. The kid had dark features with tanned skin that contrasted against the pale freckled blonde.

_ Weird _ . Having come from the streets with the concept of non-related care, well that’s just like a white-girl fantasy. Yet Evie can’t be all white. She’s gotta be a little something... extra.

Blue eyes bear into me, and I catch them in the mirror. She’s off the phone. Her jaw grinding back and forth, while her eyes don’t blink. Maybe analyzing the family photos is no bueno. Turning from the photos, I start to raise my hands in surrender again in another attempt to be disarming. I wait for her to yell, scream, throw something… anything. Holding my breath, I just stare back at her unable to step away or forward or swallow ‘cuz if I move there’s a possibility that she will snap and I’m not sure if I could really fight back since she is like small and hurt and furious ‘cuz of me and that means that I pretty much deserve whatever she has to throw at me. 

But instead of yelling, Dilynn simply states, “She’s adopted,” and then added possessively, “Mine, not his.” 

I nod feeling somehow inadequate in comparison the woman before me. If roles were reversed,  _ in an imaginary world where I’m more than just a street slut,  _ I would cuss, shit and probably attack. My feet are light though. Like the cement cracked around them and I can fall through the floor, over more practically run away. Fast away.

“Dilynn,” she offers. No handshake. Just a name. 

“That's a good name,” I answer looking at the photo of her and the girl.

Her voice sharp, she corrects me, “No, not her. I’m Dilynn.” 

I look back at her and smile. “Oh, right,” trying to mask that I already knew her name. I’ve known her name for three years.  Unsure of what else to do, I move towards her, holding my hand out once more. “Nice to meet you, Dilynn.”

Dilynn looks at me and then at my outstretched hand. She stares at it, and I feel it start to shake some for the second time. I keep it out there though, just like before. Wait for her to complete this basic form of greeting. Instead of my hand though, she shakes her head. Worrying she may go back for her knife, especially as her chest erupts with a sickly laugh, I use my free feet to move completely between her and the steal.

Slowly she catches her breath. “There is nothing nice about this meeting, Raven.”

And I realize she’s right. She’s completely right that meeting me must suck for her. I can’t tell her that meeting her may change my life. I can’t tell her that I’ve been seeing her ex for years while knowing about her, so I just join in on the infectious laughter.

Dilynn moves to the kitchen, her chest rising and falling in laughter. She pulls an almost empty bottle of vodka from the freezer first. From the cabinet, she retrieves two shot glasses. Pouring herself a shot, she holds the bottle up and points towards the empty glass, “Well, I have no child tonight. So you wanna drink with me? We can celebrate our separation... together.”

With no place to be, and no hope of eating tonight if I leave her, I do what any hopeless girl would do. I move to the granite topped breakfast counter and say, “Yeah, that sounds good. But do you have something to snack on too? I don’t think I can just handle vodka... with no food.”

She pours my shot, her eyes sizing me up. Measuring probably the lack of fat anywhere. As the clear liquid fills the second glass, her lips twist to one side. Head falls back for a moment too long. So long that I actually look up to see if the answer to the question is on the ceiling, but all I see are splashes of spaghetti sauce.  

Fingers tapping against the phone screen pulling my ceiling analysis back to where she stands before the two one ounce glasses filled with burning liquor. Her eyes fixate so intently on the screen that I pray she’s not calling the police. I know it’s a slim chance considering she’s offering me booze, but still is scary. 

My feet make roots again, and the flesh of my arms itch to move. Run like always, but the torn up work boots don’t move. I silently try to move them with telepathy, but nothing seems to work. 

Motionless. Still standing rigid next to the entry table, my eyes pop up as she asks, “Thai fried rice and pad thai okay?”

Not sure what either of those things really are, I just nod. Maybe I should tell her, she could just given me some crackers and I’d be fine. But she seems to have a plan, taps a few more times, and then her shot of vodka is in her hand and mine is being held out to me. 

Even though her body doesn’t shake nervously like I think mine is, there’s a bubbling of impatience in the room. The itch to move more vibrant and clear. Though I don’t move away. Slow steps towards her.

Her words coming out a little gravelly. “Thai should be here in like fifteen minutes.” 

Our fingers barely touch, and I glance down at her eyes. The way they study me. She releases the glass quickly and throws back her shot. Not even waiting for me. I wonder if she always drinks like this. 

Bottle at the shot glass rim, she’s pouring another. The desperation in the movements like she’s not only trying to drown pain, but even wipe away my presence. 

I can’t show her my pain. She likes to rescue, but I’m not her kid. She won’t adopt some twenty year old slut that steals boyfriends and fianc é s. She’s measuring me again. Her eyes running over me.

_ I can’t be the kid she wants… but i could be something different. Someone to make her feel wanted again.  _ I lean forward.  _ Yeah, I can do that.  _ There’s just enough space that if she looks she can see down my shirt. If I’m at the right angle, it’ll be tempting. 

She bites the bait. 

Just a lingering look that could be something of an indication of her desires.  _ Yeah, just like everyone else. Take a good look.  _ Her throat bobs, the second shot in her hand. 

There’s no helping the cocky smile I feel spreading across my face. There’s no denying that blondie has a little something for the ladies. Holding the glass up, I toast, “To freedom… and new possibilities.” 

She doesn’t echo my call. Delicate fingers just tip the second shot into her mouth. Her head falling back with a groan. I breath out, trying to let the burn in my throat ease as I watch her hand grip the edge of the table until her knuckles turn white. The slight hitch in her breath.  

Vodka not being my drink of choice, but I choke on the air slightly. Just enough that she’s focusing on me again. Endless pools of stormy darkness meet mine, and the ghosts of betrayal so vivid. I pause to reconsider what seducing her… fucking her… maybe she would just need a kiss and a hand to her cheek to reminder her that she’s worth more than him…  _ unlike me _ ... but what damage could it cause. 

The blink separates her. A clean shine falling over her face, and I realize she must have always been rich. The plastic mask that hides away everything is not something learned from the streets. 

She pours the next shot. Fingers holding it out to me, and I know that she isn’t like me. That she’ll be safe when this all blows over. She’ll have her house and her kid and her money. She’ll have her life and her success. And I’ll still be one step away from prostitution. 

Fingers taking the shot glass. This time I touch her a little more deliberately. A soft graze that could be just accidental, but the flush rising in her cheeks makes this seem a little more real. This time I smile softer. Her head tilting in a study that has me wondering if she knows that I am about to take that last step into the world I have been running from since I was ten years old. The last fragment of my soul fracturing subtly though, because I reach over.

Just resting there for a moment, like we both need just the simplicity of the contact. Both knowing that the meaning is so much heavier. My hairs prickle because I can feel there’s something there. Some struggle for her.

So I release her. Her fingers wrapping around the whole bottle and matching my shot with several deep swigs. Lips puckering slightly and eyes squinting closed are enough to tell me she is about to get trashed. 

Not fast enough though. She doesn’t ask about me. She commands with a panther like confidence, “So tell me about yourself.” And it’s my turn to swallow and wonder.


	7. Chapter 7

~Alex~

Blinds click against one another. The front door causing the slightest disturbance in the air, but it's enough to bring the suggestion of life to the room. Closing my eyes, I try not to focus on the emptiness. Spring Break’s endless days seems to draw on. Like on and on and on, and there are only so many papers to be graded, only so many fan fics to read, and only so many times I can avoid looking over the walls of the empty space and wonder what it would look like with color. Wonder what color I can choose that won’t define me as one way or the other.

The towel wrapped over the back of my neck itches. That new laundry detergent was a mistake, even the flowery scent is making my eyes hurt. I know better than to change. Nothing good ever comes from change. Using my arm instead of the towel, I wipe away the sweat dripping past my brow and then down the leg of the pants stretched around my legs.

Still in the small tiled area near the door, I begin to remove my shoes. Untying each shoe and carefully pulling it off my foot. As the laces of the left shoe come undone, I notice that the second hole from the bottom is threaded from the inside to the out.

I sigh. The stupid shoe salesboy couldn’t get a single thing right. I take the shoe with me to the couch. The fabric doesn’t give even an inch. No flex in the stiff leather. As I practically bounce off the firm cushion, I wonder if I maybe I need to practice a little give. Maybe try something new that would be a little more comfortable. 

I reach up and scratch my neck. Pulling the towel off and tossing it on the floor. My eyes try to set it a blaze. The fucking itchy towel a hope crusher. A reminder of the reality that the grass is not always greener on the others side. Just a new set of problems. A new couch could bring back ache. That lily painting with annoying bright colors like those on my shoes would then require more colored  _ stuff  _ and that would be expensive. Too expensive for my budget. 

Pulling out the laces in the shoe, I begin the tedious task of fixing the shoeboy’s mistake. Muscles in my neck clench at the sound of each lace being drug through the hole. I pause when the lace is halfway through hole three and wonder if this was really worth it.  _ It’s just one hole, and really what’s the point? _

I glance up and catch my reflection in the television. The frizz around my head is really the only thing out of place. No skin rolling in awkward places. When I turn to the side, there is a smooth definition between my neck and jaw. 

_ It's not just one hole.  _ That's the thing, It’s about looking good in this cage. It's about being the best I can so that even if people make assumptions, at least they will see someone that cares to look nice. That I haven't given up. 

Ripping the string through the hole this time, I set on a careful pace. This needs to be right. I can't walk around looking ridiculous. I can't have people thinking I can't even lace my shoes correctly. 

Really there’s no reason to hurry. Nothing pressing for me to do… besides see if Skyprisa put up a new chapter. The realization that she may has me setting the shoe down and making my way to the counter where I left my phone before my run. 

The email app has a small red bubble off of it wit the number four. Four new messages. The second is the important one though. The second message is the subscription notification that Skyprisa has indeed updated her fic. I’m about to click the link right there on the phone and read it while standing at the counter. 

I can’t though. I mean, when I’m out and the update comes through, then, yes the only sensible thing to do is to drop everything to read it. However, at home I get to fully absorb the story, and then prepare for a potentially feisty conversation with Skyprisa herself.

Opening up the laptop, I brush away the few particles of dust on the desk. I avoid dishevling the stacks of meticulously graded papers, and take a glance at the calendar just to remind myself that tomorrow is Wednesday. Tomorrow I’m invited to a Greyson Pizza Night. Greyson will be there, and I will be get to see her in a non-teacher way. I will get to see her with her casual clothes, and watch her smile.

My shoulders relax. I practice smiling to the computer. Imagine her crystal blue eyes lighting up as she looks at me. Like she actually sees me, not just another coworker in the crowd as she helps the pep rally team keep the kids in line. 

Imagining her seeing me makes me want to stand a little taller. Be a little stronger. I'm sure she's going to need someone to make her laugh.  _ I can be funny. _

I try to think of a joke to practice. Nothing comes to mind besides knock knock. Even then, I have nothing besides go out with me. And I kick the part of me that throws out there half heartedly, to have babies with me. 

Shaking away the idea that she would ever even pretend to practice procreating with me, I try to talk myself back up.  _ I’ll make it a point to talk to her. Maybe, there’s a chance she broke up with that tool _ . So many things are running through my head that I have to catch myself. I have to remind myself that  _ pretty and successful women like Dilynn Greyson don’t want anything to do with people who are too far outside of normal.  _

The computer logs in, and I’m opening the link to Skyprisa’s story. I lose the nervous energy two paragraphs in. Losing myself in the character’s mind. In Skyprisa’s improved direction, each word embeds within me. Each one a little harsher as the character berates herself. Each sentence a little more betrayed, and I wonder if maybe Skyprisa is alone too.

> The air bites at her nose, while the cold hard ground seeps through her clothes, then skin, and into her bones. She cannot remember being this cold before. The fur draped over her does not help. The cell is more of a hole dung partially into the ground. It is not made for a person, it's made for an animal.   
>    
> 
> 
> Adults do not look at her as they walk past. Children approach, but run away laughing. “I should have a plaque on my cage. Beware: Brings death by the hundreds without touching anyone.”
> 
> She can see remnants from the destruction that was allowed to happen, but the villagers moved easily as though this is the new normal. She knew differently then. She understood for the first time what it meant to live within the tatters of society. 
> 
> _ This is not new _ . Then,  _ Same shit, different cage. _

There is no way to swallow back the tears of knowing. I’m grateful for once that I live alone. That no one can see the first tear that spills from my eyes as I connect to the same cage surrounded with gawking people. No, explanation could have better described my everyday. 

Still sobbing and just trying to catch my breath, I look over the house. Taking just a moment to measure my own creation. My own cage of solitude with sharp lines and hard surfaces.

I stand up. The chair tipping backwards with my momentum. I stand because it’s time to stop being a prisoner. Time to cease locking myself away. 

Grabbing a baggy shirt, a movement of sheer freedom, I make my way to the front closet and pull on shoes that are old. Shoes that are worn with what may just be love. Stumbling, I feel a little out of sorts but I get the shoes on. I get them on, and I’m out the door, typing my response as I rush back to the mall for the second time this week. 

Back to where I saw Greyson and her kid. Towards the vast clothing stores to send money that I never thought I should, but to create a new version of me. A version of me that tomorrow I can be proud to present to the teacher with blue eyes that sparkle.

Dialing the phone, I call Kayta. She answers almost immediately, her same annoyed voice as last time, and I wonder if there ever isn’t a time that her and Emily are not humping. “Get off your girlfriend. I need your help.”

“What now?” she grunts, and I am positive they haven’t stopped fucking even for a second. I feel like maybe I should be disturbed that they answer the phone and proceed to have sex while I am like a third party witness. “And I swear to god if this is about Queen Greyson, I will shank you at school tomorrow. Em, totally taught me how to make a shank.”

“I need a new wardrobe,” I tell her. “I need to stop living like my body is cage.”

There’s a whispered, “sorry babe,” and then movement. I wonder if she’s coming to help me, and I pause in the parking lot. Looking up at the belt of Orion barely visible in the night light. Then Kayta comes back, “Al, I want to be there for this moment but we can't do it now.”

Frustrated I bite back, “You can ditch my moment because you want to have sex. That's so wrong.”

There’s a subtle laugh, as she explains, “Oh fucker, I'm coming to support you, but check the fucking time, Dick.” I hear her as the phone comes off my face and stare at the laughing numbers. “It's like 10:30pm.”

I should’ve known better. There no escaping the fact that no matter what I buy, l’ll still be walking a line of gender that Greyson will never accept. 

“Stop hating yourself,” Katya yells through the speaker. “I'm coming to clean out your closet so we have places to put your new shit.”

“I want her to like me.”

“I hate her, you know that. Anyone else, Alex. I beg you to choose anyone besides the blonde Barbie who actually has a plastic crown and cardboard fucking castle in her classroom.” There’s no changing my mind though. Even as I stand in the yellow lit lot, I can see her hips swaying as she dances without a care next to her kid at that pep rally where student cheered for her. 


	8. Chapter 8

~Ana~

We’re several shots into a second bottle of the crystal burning liquor when her phone dings. Really she is several shots in and she doesn’t seem to notice that she has taken twice as many as I have. Dilynn almost flies over the counter in her drunken clumsiness to retrieve the device. She sees whatever it is she is hoping for. Her drunken smile spread evenly over her face.

"Yass!" she calls out as she read over the message allowed: “Alex left you a comment: ‘not sure what to say since I didn’t dislike the chapter. There seem to be issues when i like something though so lets just call it a draw.” 

Dilynn wiggled on her belly over the stone. She didn’t seem to care that the counter’s damp with spilt alcohol. Nor did she seem to notice that her white shirt’s now see through. I wish I could pretend not to notice. It’s pretty much good to notice because then she can see that I am ‘attracted’ to her, but still I just wish it could be a little less subtle. 

Stomach twisting, I swallow my guilt of seducing the plastered woman before me. “Yeasss, that'ss wright A-lix the Sroll!” she slurs. Blue glassy eyes come up to see me. The weak gleam in her eyes for the strange messenger causes me to momentarily reevaluate my plan. 

I’m not really sure what she is talking about, but she is clearly drunk. Clearly drunk beyond consent. Beyond the point that she would probably even remember if I spent time between her thighs. I want to call it off, but then I realize that this messenger may be an actual person.  _ A person that is ready to jump on the Dilynn Greyson free ride train.  _ Another pause.  _ Whoa, that is so fucking wrong. _

I don’t want to believe her to be that easy. She doesn’t strike me as the type of girl that would just jump into bed with a random stranger.  _ I have to be better than a random stranger _ . Matching her slur, I ask her about the stranger, “Whosse Leksa the sroll?” I roll my head a little, fling my wrist just carelessly enough that I seem just as plastered.

“She makes mean commenss on my writings, but I wins cus she ssaid ssomethin’ nice. Well kind of,” she responds, tilting her head sideways as she rereads the message.

Holding out my hand to Dilynn, I gesture towards myself, “Lemme… lemme see it.” She doesn’t even second guess that I’m a stranger. The slim metal unprotected in my hand is a further reminder of how different we are. I glance over the message with squinted eyes. I’m pretty smart. Can figure most things out on my own, but this one has me stumped. “Whas the helll is sus-suspen-on of disbelief?” 

Dilynn moves awkwardly towards the couch. Her steps off balance, and a little too wide. She looks almost fall, but the high backed leather couch catches her. She slides over the arm, and a glow lights the path for me to follow. I haven’t even fully read the message but I move alongside her.

My body sliding against her. I try to fumble just as awkwardly around her. Dilynn looks over at me just for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything. Her chest stutters though. The small bob of her throat tells me she’s considering me in her drunken haze.  

This is the first time that she seems to see me. Not the woman that was with her man, but her glassy eyes see me. She turns from me though. 

Her eyes focus on the screen of her computer. Laying my head on the blonde's shoulder, I watch Dilynn hit the "reply to comment" link and begins to type her response. Answering my question that seems to have been asked forever ago under her gaze, she states, “Dunno. I think she made that shit up.” 

Without waiting for me to contribute to the conversation, she types: “I do appreciate kind comments; it is just ooc from the initial commentary I have received from you, Alex. I am sorry if I hurt your feelings or have made you hesitant to respond. I honestly was just being a snarky ass. I won't lie the first comment pissed me off when you started talking about my use of the English language, but on the story line, I have tough skin. No sweat. I do appreciate your critique. I feel it helped me "find my groove." That's right I am attributing your like of my story to me and not to your "suspension of disbelief" (whatever the hell that is; I am almost certain that is not an effective English Literary analysis). Who knows maybe you are my platonic Sydney and I am your Emma, which in the case of my story makes you a crazy hothead and me mopey and angry. :) Thanks for sticking with me even though you didn't have much hope originally; see you totally are oc Sydney!!!! what!”

I snort at the ridiculousness of the conversation she is holding with a complete stranger. I remember though that I am supposed to be drunk so I tell her with some extra s’s added to my words, “Damn girl, yous goods at them words.”

Dilynn laughs. Her body turning to high five me but she miss. Not nicely missing as her palm collides with my face. My cheek taking the brunt of the blow. At first I jump back ready to fight the drunk mess before me. That is until her pale hand is rubbing my cheek kind of roughly. Soft voice repeating “sorry” and “I’m sooooo sorry.” 

I can't be mad at the drunky, especially since the accident my slap has her placing a gentle kiss on the corner of my lips. Not a real kiss but the suggestion of the kiss was there. 

She’s close. So close, because she seems to have lost the ability to sit all the way up. Her eyes are more dark than blue. A hint of desire that takes me by surprise. A surprise that has me leaning forward almost to catch her lips in a real kiss. I’m almost there when her head snaps forward. 

Dilynn’s loud voice stating,  “I just needs to post it.” Pressing the post button with a shift back. Her ability to be uptight taking hold again. She seems to have sobered up some in just a moment. She opens up her email again and waits. Waits as I adjust to provide a little more distance between our bodies. 

My back hits the arm of the couch. With just a slight roll of my head, I groan. Playing my part well for Dilynn who seems to relax a little  now that there is space between us.  

_ Maybe this is a mistake.  _

_ Maybe I just need to ask for a place to sleep.  _

The maybe’s keep coming . The considerations continually rolling. I’m lost in my own thoughts for so long that I’m not even sure how long it takes Alex to comment back. But whoever Alex is, she does. 

Dilynn clicks it open immediately and as she reads it silently. I’m not that patient though. I move back in her pace and read aloud with my best drunken interpretation“sus-pens-in of disbelief or willin’ sus-pen-son of disbelief is a term coined in 1817 by the poet and aesthetic phil-oma-somthan samuel taylor cool-er-ridge, who suggestad that if a writer could infoose a "human interest and a sambalance of truth" into a fantastic tale, the reader would sus-pen-ed judgment conserning the impausability of the narrative. sus-pen-sin of disbelief often applies to fictional works of the action, comedy, fantasy, and horror genres. cognatave estrangement in fiction involves using a person's ignorence or lack of knowledge to promote sus-pen-sin of disbelief.” 

I have to take a deep breath when I run out of words. Turning to Dilynn again whose face is equally confused, I ask, “What the fuck just happened?”

Bitterly the blue down cast eyes states, “I just got schooled.” 

There are no other words. Just her fingers hitting the keys of the computer so quickly. She types again, “And the score is... Alex 1: SkyDreamer: 1”

“The score?” I ask still close. The tension in the air growthing again as she kind of side glances at me. Her head not turning fully. 

“Well I figure I’s gets a point for her saying something nice, but she getss one for schooling my ass. I should have known that. I am a fucking Englesh teacher.” The laugh is hard to fight back. I mean come on she said English wrong. 

I can’t laugh though. Not after Dilynn’s eyes meet mine. Eye that are warm and clearly drunk. “I can’t do this, Ana,” she states, pulling away from me.

Stumbling to find the words. Trying to save my ass. I let a few apologies tumble out, “I’m sorry, Dilynn I didn’t mean to… you know. I don’t even know what got into me.”

Glancing up at the ceiling, she reaches for a random half full bottle of water from the end table.  Her eyes shut. She’s clearly considering something. I know that something is me. There’s nothing left to do though but wait. It’s clear that she is not going to let me make a whore of myself tonight. 

“Look if you kissing Brandon hadn’t just torn my world apart... and I had been single. I would kiss you,” Dilynn confesses. Her words make me feel awkwardly warm. Like maybe this is the truth falling from her lips. I mean, it’s not like I have seen the woman lie. Maybe she is that good. Too many maybes though. The slice of reality feels like a dagger pushing through my sternum. “But you did kiss Brandon... And I did lose the life I had been planning. Another parent for my kid.” Then carefully, “She hated him. She would be pissed if you were here. Tell me I am just like her mother. Always looking for someone to warm my bed...and it hurts.” 

I tilt my head wondering if she is going to cry. I mean I get it people cry. I just don’t like to deal with it. Especially since I am the cause. But at the same point she doesn’t seem upset about me. Hell, she actually is into me. 

“If it was someone else she would be angry, but... I just can’t do that with you,” the blonde explains in sobering clarity.

The teenager’s face stares up at me from the small frame on the coffee table. She is different when she smiles. When the kid was screaming at Brandon though, I learned how hurtful she could be. No, these tears are not for me. Not even for Brandon. Nope. Dilynn Greyson is only heartbroken over one person. Only cares for one person’s opinion of her. 

“No worries, Dil-lynn.” I pause for a second, trying to lighten the mood that I had darkened, “Does she have a problem with you liking girls?”

A seductive grin pulling up the corner of her lip. The smile wasn’t an answer. It was clear she wouldn’t give one. Without much else to do, I try to keep our conversation going. “So, who is Alex the Troll?” 


	9. Chapter 9

~Dilynn~

The warmth is just enough to fight away the biting morning air. Arm tight around my middle and I smile at the momentary hope he came home. Pressing backwards, the soft breath tickles my neck. The sensation causing an oxymoron of emotion calming and exciting. I can’t bare to move. It’s been so long since he’s held me like this. It’s been what feels like months, so I lean a little further into the figure, grinding my ass into the form to try and get a rise.

No rise comes though. Rather the bed seems to fall under her. Vanishing as though the stationary furniture is not sturdy or heavy. Mind quickly dragging from the sexy sleep with the sensation of falling.

Falling.

Falling.

_ Thump!  _

Plushing electricity radiates through my left arm and hip bone as she hit the plush rug coated in Autumn’s hair, no matter how often it was vacuumed. But the hair is the least of any worry for I. my body rolling to alleviate the pain coursing to where there would surely be a purple bruise running down the left side of my body. 

“Ow! What the fuck?!” I start screaming and end ing whispering. The sound immediately echoes through my skull, hands coming up to hold the bones together. Eyes opening wide to see the aqua eyed teen standing over me, black crocheted Tom pressing down on the reclining foot of the couch.

Another female voice groans groggily from the couch above Dilynn,“What the hell?”

The eyes above me are murderous though. A sharp finger thrusting out as the girl releases the foot of the recliner and I’m battered from on the other side of her body. “How are you cuddling with her!” the furious teen accused in an octave that causes another sharp pain to surge through the blonde’s skull.

Keeping the one hand to my head, I hold the other up to the girl, begging softly, “Please, E. Too loud, k?”

“What is going on, Greyson?” the girl rephrases slightly quieter, but not enough to keep the pulsing  from returning. I squint up at the girl, who had dropped the Mom and even the Momma before my last name. We apparently are back to lashing out again. 

“Let’s try whispering, please. And nothing is going on,” I say softly. “She came to apologize and we had a few drinks…” my explanation trailing off.

Evie scoffs, and points over to the counter saying louder than a whisper intentionally, “A few? There are two empty bottles of vodka on the table and you were just moaning into that bitch’s arms.”

“Hey!” Ana calls back too loudly, and pushs up from the couch. By the immediate square of her shoulders and setting of her feet I know that being called bitch was clearly a trigger for Ana.

“WHISPERS PEOPLE!” I yell, holding my hands over my ears. Everything hurts too much for them to fight. For me to move. It’s just too much. I try again, “I was not moaning into her. I thought she was…” I stop before I finish. Nothing I say right now will change how angry Evie is. 

Ana looks down at me. Her shoulder’s relaxing some. Her words almost too playful. “Oh you were moaning and I was concerned that you were going to sleep rape me.”

“LA LA LA LA LA,” Everleigh sings out suddenly, her mouth wide and her fingers in her ears. I too, cover my ears, and push up to my knees, furious with the girl that I have apparently slept with on the couch.

I shoot an angry glare up at Ana, and beg her to, “Stop.” Just a smile and I know I fucked up.  _ Was it really that dim that I couldn’t tell how young she really is?  _ The drinking was one thing but I suddenly worry that maybe I crossed a line last night.  _ Fuck! Did we?  _ I try to reassure myself.  _ No. I would remember that.  _ It’s weak and my brain seems to be having an argument with itself while I sit back and just listen for and outcome.  _ Wouldn’t I?  _

Turning my attention back to Ana, I see her smiling. Her canine teeth a little further up than the others. She’s clearly enjoying how worked up Evie is. Maybe it’s her way of digging under her daughter's skin for calling her a bitch. “Enough, Ana. We talked about this,” I huff exasperated, but what it’s still irking that I can’t recall how I ended up being the little spoon to Ana’s big spoon.

As though Ana could hear my thoughts, she sits back down on the couch. Her words simple. Casual as though there was nothing weird about her trying to kiss me or being at my house. She provides a blunt and easy reassurance that we did not have sex, and I may have provided alcohol to someone under twenty-one, I did not go as far as to sleep with someone closer to my kid’s age than mine. “Don’t worry. We were good, well actually we were both emotional and cried a lot.”

_ Makes sense _ .

Pulling myself up, I find my phone. The time brightly displayed over the image of me and Evie: 11:15. I check the email app first for a notification bubble, and when I find none I refresh the app to try and poke it into giving me emails that maybe it hasn’t registered yet. No new emails. 

Evie is still standing next to my feet. Her weight shifting from side to side with her lower lip pulled back between her teeth. Eyes meet as we share an unspoken conversation. The stillness of her glare in spite of her swaying shrinks me further. She hates me right now. Thinks the worst of me. Thinks that I am desperate. It’s written on her face that I’m not the mother she would’ve chosen. And I see it all, feel is all until my shoulders collapse and stomach aches to rid the ineffective numbing agent I keep consuming.  

“Well it’s Wednesday,” Evie says at last, having taken a seat on the other full couch, still keeping an eye on the darker girl sitting on the other side of me. Body leaning away from Ana, I try to gather enough energy to push myself up from the very hard floor. It doesn’t come, so I wave towards the kitchen and answer Everleigh’s unasked question, “List is on the fridge. Keys are in my purse. Take my card too.”

Teal eyes glance over Ana once more. She doesn’t give me a second look though. I’m clearly no longer worth her time. The keys clink together as she rummages through my purse for cash. I expect the usually slam of the door that comes whenever she is upset with me. I wait for the rattle of frames and walls that shake into my core. “Well, I’m going then,” she calls over to me like maybe she is hoping I will get off the floor and go with her. 

Evie looks hesitant when she meets my eyes this time. A small glimpse of vulnerability that she typically keeps so buried the pain she inflicts seems heartless. I see through the facade to the girl in the doorway wanting me to come with her but also wanting me to stay and deal with Ana’s presence. 

I nod to her that I understand she wants me to make the girl on our couch leave. The girl whose legs lift from the floor, the softest squeaks of springs protest her repositioning. Evie is gone before I move. 

My head falls back to the couch behind me. Circling blades of the fan catch my attention so effortlessly that I begin to follow the slow whirles, marking the rounds with the shuttering metal pull string. Several rounds in I feel the first pangs of karma beginning in my gut only to spread like a fire through the rest of my torso. I’m going to puke, each round solidifying this fact. 

“What’s special about Wednesdays?” There’s lightness in her voice. An innocence that I don’t think was there last night. Or maybe I was too plastered to really notice much about the girl. She has to be a girl.

Unable to look at her, I explain, “Family pizza night.” My fingers grip the phone. It vibrates once and I see Evie’s text that she made it to the store. She must not be that mad at me.  The room seems to right just enough that I feel more comfortable giving a little more information. “Evie’s friends and my co-workers come. I make pizza. It’s how I get to stay up to date with her life without being a helicopter parent.”

“Wow, so you’re like Mom of the Year,” Ana states. A single brow lifts on my face before I can stop it. She’s looking at me. I don’t see her eyes, but the tingles run across my skin on the side she is seated. “What’s with the face?”

I swallow, the first tickles in my throat making the possibility of vomiting an almost certainty. Head up is not helping so I drop it hoping to pinch the passage so nothing will come up. “She thinks I’m a slut right now.”

“She loves you.”

Air breaks through an I burp unapologetically. Ana snickers some behind me, but i wave her off. “At least I didn’t puke.” I can’t acknowledge her statement. That would mean getting my hopes up when Evie has always made it very clear when she is eighteen she won’t need me anymore. 

“It’s a tradition that my father started before he died,” I deflect back to the original topic. “Every Wednesday the house was open to friends and family, and he would make pizza as we sat around the table and just talked about our lives, the world, and anything else. When I got Evie, it just seemed necessary to start the tradition up again.”

My head pounding still I try to look straight ahead. The messy hair and smeared eyeliner reflected back at me through the fake fireplace glass. I jump a little when Ana’s hands find my scalp. Nimble but strong fingers press against my temples and at the base of my scalp. I should stop her from touching. Really this isn’t right… but it’s just been a long time since someone has cared to rub my head. 

The whisper is soft but the statement too loud. “I am not better than you, Dilynn.” Shooting prickles run down my neck that tighten the muscles in my shoulders, back and abdomen.  A simple pause from someone clearly stronger than I am. “I am inferior in many ways. He played us and he for sure didn’t deserve you.”

I try to absorb her words. Attempt to make them a reality. Considered if she could be telling the truth. But she’s still the girl that had been on Brandon’s arm. I still can’t accept that she is here and being nice. There still has to be a game. No one is that nice. I’m not that nice even though people think I am. I mean I just write all their shit out in a forum where no one can see how mean I really I am.

My brows scrunch. I can’t relax because this woman that showed up on my doorstep last night has her fingers buried in my very frizzy, very unwashed hair. What was relaxing and comforting is setting me on edge. 

I need space. The moment of human contact now too much. Her proximity too overwhelming and frustrating. Hands running down my pants, I wipe away the clammy sweat coming from my palms. Searching for a distraction, I begin to catalogue the things that need to be done to prepare for tonight. 

Showering is the top of my list. Cleaning the kitchen second. But showering is definitely a priority as the vodka soaked oniony body odor that seems to be settling around me becomes overpowering. Taking a glance back, I see Ana settle back into the couch like she has no intention of leaving. I get a second opportunity to take her in. 

Her eyes clear. Like she hadn’t drank all night with me. And I wonder if maybe I’m getting played again. Why would she come here though just to mess with my head. I mean she left with him. Or did she? We left first, maybe she left him in the mall too. 

She’s too thin. That’s the thing that I can’t get passed.She’s thin and I’m not. But she’s too thin. My lip between my teeth helps me balance. At least I think I’m balanced but the need to puke is becoming thicker. I can’t tear my eyes from hers though. The clearity. Too clear but also too blank. A wall. A thick one. 

My gut twists before I can decide if she should get out or stay. Feet carrying me to the bathroom and a single goal now set. Vomit. Ana is nothing compared to my body’s need to punish me for poor choices.  


	10. Chapter 10

~Dilynn~

I knead the dough a little on the silicone pad. The flour and water mixture is warm due to the preheated oven just below it. With the air pockets popping, scents of yeast mix with the onion powder, oregano, and garlic salt added to the monster sized jar of marinara. Every Wednesday as I poke the dough for readiness, I see Dad’s smile. His translucent figure fanning a hand over the pot of sauce.

I miss him. Glancing over, I see Evie pushing the vacuum over the small area rug. Evie is a part of why I miss him. She moves obliviously through the house, still grumpy over the fact that Ana is still here. She would’ve loved Dad. He would’ve loved her for being alive. My girl twists and weaves, earbuds pressed too deep in her ears. She only looks away from her job when she sees Ana come from her hallway.

There’s no blaming her still very clear frustration. The awkwardness of Ana being here is still disquieting. I can’t wipe away all of the questions about her presence on my doorstep, like how does she know where I live? She didn’t want to leave though. I could see it in her eyes last night. Lost and alone.

Without a care, and as though she had always done this, Ana picked up the duster and began partaking in the weekly pre-pizza cleaning session. Too familiar and disheartening to turn her away. I turn back to the stove and look into his eyes. Whispering, “Open doors right?” When his memory doesn’t answer, I take up position at the island to work the dough through the flour. Watching the two girls move about the room polarized from each other, I prepare for the breakdown.

Air thick with Italian seasoning and teenage frustration, I hold the dough. I’m prepared to launch it at Evie just to gather her attention. Evie keeps a sharp peripheral eye on every move that Ana makes. Her cheeks flushing more and more as Ana doesn’t seem to be phased that she is in _her_ house. It’s the strike of the vacuum against the coffee table that jars Evie out of her daze.   My fingers dig into the softness as Evie hits the power button on the vacuum and drops the handle.

Eerie silence is broken by, “We need to talk.”

Ana’s head tilts. It seems to be her turn to take in my daughter.  With a twist of her lips, she asks casually, “Is that code for step out side so I can punch you in the face?”

I don’t even give Evie a chance to give this a thought. She would punch Ana. I call out, “No hitting!”

“Talk,” Evie repeats. “If I was going to hit you, I would have already done it.” Pointing to the backyard, Evie leads Ana towards their ‘talk’. I wish they would’ve gone to Evie’s room. I mean from her room I can hear everything. Outside they could be bloody and half dead without me hearing them.   

Lucky for me, they are both sitting on patio chairs by the pool in clear eye line. I beat the dough the a little. I want to hit something. Evie got to hit Brandon. I wish I had her passion to do anything besides pinpoint all of the reasons I wasn’t worth it.

I squeeze and strangle a portion of dough off the large lump. Pulling and stretching until it’s too lumpy. I get to slam it now with a smack against the counter. Then smash it with the handless rolling pin. Spreading it so thinly, I realize I’ve messed it up. Not circular but a sort of wonky triangle, I ball it back up again.

The girls don’t come back in until Landon arrives with Evie’s best friend. No knock, just the thud of the door that is left open. Landon’s arms filled with twelve packs of soda and Katie struggling with two bags of ice.

They move straight to the ice chest in its permanent position against the wall hidden by the table.  “Greyson, they are talking about Bible camp!” Katie whines. “Why can’t they just accept the homo in my veins and move the hell on?”

At the sound of Evie’s friends arrival, the two girls returned from outside. Instead of scowling, they’re laughing and play fighting as though Ana is just another school friend. Katie’s head snaps to where Evie is coming inside and points at her. “YOUR fault!”

Evie’s eyes grow, then gradually the smile spreads over her face. The conversation is pretty much always the awkward same. I mean, I appreciate that I know what my daughter is doing but I would rather not know she is loud in bed.   

Thank goodness other people begin arriving. Several of Evie and Katie’s teammates help pull the table apart and the eaves out, expanding it to accommodate the crowd. With teens comfortable, Mr. Martin arrives with his husband and two year old son. Marco holds up his stuffed giraffe for me to see as I take the platter of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Without time to waste, I focus on getting the pizza dough rolled out, sauce spread, and pepperoni’s tossed in heaps atop. Two at a time go in the oven for twelve minutes and less time for the first round of empty trays to be returned.

The quick pace of the fading afternoon has me for the first time not thinking about Brandon. That is until I look up to see Ana sitting next to my girl with a slice in each hand. Her focus on devouring as much food as possible.

I take just a moment’s pause to appreciate the community. The sixth pizza dough in a circle before me as I listen to the various conversations until the door opens and Kevin comes in.

“Hey Jordan!” I call over before I realize he is not alone. I wipe my flour covered hands on the old Starbucks apron and walk over to the chemistry teacher. We give each other a brief hug.

“Hey Greyson,” he says before stepping back. He steps aside and I get to take in up close the newest member of Ellias High School faculty. He makes introductions easy even though I knew this person. “This is Alex Trikru. Teaches political science and government.”

The long dark curls frame the tanned face. Green eyes take in the house and gaze uneasily at the joint company of students and teachers surrounding my table. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her with her hair down.  

Trikru stood uncomfortably straight, and I wonder if the company is putting the teacher on edge.

“Hi, welcome to family pizza night.” I try to smile not like a creeper or over excited. In an effort to ease the discomfort, I ask “Jordan explained that my kid is a student at the school?”

“Yes,” is the only response. The chatter behind me continues, but slowly Trikru extends a single hand between us. I’m too excited, taking her hand in both my own and shake it warmly. Smiling at the gorgeous face before saying, “I am glad you could join us. Would you prefer to go by your last name or first?”

"Trikru, por favor."

I smile and nod, calling out to the kids, "Make room for Ms. Trikru at the table, hooligans!"

There’s no chance for more conversation though. Evie calls out giggling,“So Momma G, have you heard from Alex the Troll today?” She had obviously been telling the others about my battle against the commenter.

When I look back at the new comer, I lock eyes with her. Are her eyes green or grey? For a second Trikru seems bewildered but as quickly as the discomfort had lifted it returns to a cold stoic glare. The green harshness stunning. I find it difficult to breath for a moment, then a soft choke as I try to clear my throat.

Disregarding Evie’s subtle taunting, I speak to Trikru loudly so that the teens know to make room, “Pull up a chair anywhere you're comfortable. I will warn you though; you have to grab the slices you want, because no one waits on anyone. And the boys will eat it all if you give them a chance.” The chairs screech against the tile floor as they adjust for the new addition. Trikru doesn’t even acknowledge what I say, only moving towards the table.

I want to follow but that’s not my job right now. I have pizzas to make and guests to feed. Reluctantly, I return to the kitchen and resum rolling out the dough.

When I see Trikru is at least seated though still clearly uncomfortable, I answer my daughter, “Actually we had a battle last night. But the troll completely schooled me.”

Some at the table look slightly confused, so Evie fills the table in. “So Momma G writes for this fan fiction site. And she has been having this commentary battle online with one of her readers. I am sure the person is a troll, but Momma G feels the need to poke at her consistently. The funny thing is how excited she gets whenever the damn email dings.”

“She dove for that ding last night,” Ana supplies, mouth half full of pizza and both hands holding new uneaten slices.

“Shut up both of you!” I cry out from across the counter, shaking a sauce covered wooden spoon at the two girls that had obviously figured out a way to get along. “You cannot just tell everyone that!”

“So what did she say last night?” Evie asks, all heads turning to me. Even Trikru’s watch me for an answer.  

I can’t stop the smile playing on my lips. “Just something about not hating me so much.” I try to be nonchalant. Try is the operative word.

“Ha! No way,” Ana again buts in. “She totally got this backwards compliment and when she responded Alex the Troll totally schooled her.”

Coughing interrupts the conversation, and I feel the gaze shift from me to the new comer at the head of the table. Trikru sat frozen with a hand over mouth, trying to gain composure.

The stoic brunette looks at me before hesitantly asking, “May I have glass of water?”

“Oh yeah, of course.” I turn to the cabinet and retrieve a glass. Putting the glass to the water dispenser, I hear soft steps against the tile approaching. When I turn, I hadn’t realized how close the teacher had gotten. Easily frightened, I jump slightly. Trikru takes the glass from me before she wore it.

“Thank you, Ms. Griffin,” Trikru says formally. A musky scent of cologne fills my lungs, and I lick my lips. Taking a moment to follow the suspender down to where it connects to skinny jeans. Taking in the flawless complexion of Trikru’s face, I can’t breath again.

“You’re… You’re welcome,” I stammer slightly. Watching as the long fingered hand raises the glass to plump pink lips. Transfixed on the subtle parting of the lips and way her throat moves slowly with each gulp of water. It’s the removal of the glass that breaks my gaze.

I try to come up with something to say. Anything. Anything turns into, “So how long have you and Jordan been seeing each other?”

Two brows scrunch together before there is a laugh. A soft huff of amusement that really isn’t a laugh but it’s the most comfortable that Trikru has been yet. “We…” the glass free hand runs over the back of her neck. “I’m not with anyone.”

“Oh.” I’m not really sure what else to say.

Trikru doesn’t seem really to know what to say either. At least I don’t have to fill the silence though. “Jordan is not my type of person. I’m more into people without Adam’s apples.” My eyes find green again and I nod. Trikru seems to be waiting for me to react, so I don’t.

I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Especially since a part of me is relieved to know Jordan did not land the hottest teacher on campus.

“You no longer have your ring on.” I look at my hand. Thumb running over the finger where the metal used to rest. I process Trikru’s observation. The observation that makes to remember that no one in the room knows I’m no longer getting married, unless Evie had told them.

“Uh… we... actually… we’re no longer together,” I answer softly, hoping not to draw any attention from the rowdy group around the table.

“Oh,” is the only quiet response. I expect her to walk away. She doesn’t though. The personal space that seemed to be necessary earlier disappears. Trikru’s hand is on my arm as she adds, “I am sorry.”

“It was like a week ago,” she says quietly. “I just haven’t had the chance to-“

The hand squeezes softly, “It’s ok. No need to explain.”  Speaking softly only once more before returning to the table, "He lost a treasure." I watch Trikru walk towards the group and return to the vacant seat at the head of the table.

I need a minute or a drink. No escape possible, I turn away to gather myself. The imminent need to cry and dance that Trikru thinks I’m a treasure. She could just be saying that, but still. Maybe she’s someone that says what she means.

 _I got to get it together_ . _Now is not the time._

Fighting to keep back the tears, I feel a set of arms embrace my shoulders and smell the sandalwood and vanilla that makes up Evie.

“You ok, Mom?” the girl whispers.

“Yeah, honey. I am fine,” I answer, patting the girl’s arm lightly.

“So, Trikru is here,” Olympia responds quietly. It feels like a hint “Maybe you could use a distraction that did not sleep with Brandon.” It was a statement, not a question. An offer of understanding that I have needs that haven’t been met in quite sometime.

“E!” I twist and pull the girl around into a large hug. “I am not ready for that... But damn.” We share a knowing look of appreciation for the attractive political science teacher posted at the table. Evie laughs and hugs me once more before returning to my own spot on Landon’s lap.

~~~~~

It’s 1 am, when I’ve written enough to post another chapter. After Ana had taken up space in the spare bedroom, claiming to be too exhausted to leave, and Evie retreated to her bedroom to watch another Disney movie. I sit up in the king sized bed waiting. I try to justify that i am not waiting for a response from Alex. Luckily I don’t have to wait.  

The phone and iPad dinged in unison, announcing an email received. Alex has left you a comment: “Skylar pissed me off, but she does that in the book too so i guess she's in character? i feel sorry for the guy that landon's going to kill, but kinda glad that mary sue is dying. that's all, i don't have more to say... that's all the mean i can be right now. sorry, promise to be more mean next chapter if you want.”

I don’t fight the smile over the critique. Clicking the link to respond, I try to figure out what this makes me so happy. I can’t find an answer though, especially when I am trying to be witty.

"Hey Meanie (or the OC Skylar), I feel sorry for him too. Maybe Katya will find her hero again and save his ass. Who knows? You know, you saying that makes me want to make Atlas live that much more just to prove to you she is not a "mary sue" (which one of my more fan fix savvy students explained to me today, so now I actually know what you mean). Bring it! I got this. :) Just don't make me cry.”

After hitting post, I pull up Hulu on my iPad. I lay on my back holding the iPad to my chest as an episode of some British show begins to play when the sound dims just enough to allow for another email ding. The show resumes but I have more important business to attend to.

Changing apps to email, I read:

Alex has left you a comment: “well in our history together you already made me like parts of your story, so i hope you also make me change my mind about her. i didn't like red in this chapter. sorry, doubt i can be more mean than this going forward cause you're starting to grow on me.”

I throw her arms in the air in success, and the iPad falls downward. So quickly it connects with my nose, and then my forehead. “Damn it.”

Rubbing my nose, the feeble attempt to fight back the tears as the still very present pain pulses in my face fails. Once they start to fall, I can’t stop them. Releasing remnants of still very raw emotion I can’t seem to swelch.

Mucus runs freely from my nose with the tears but at least I am not choking. No, I’m a mess of boogers and salty tears that I wipe from my face onto my pajama pants. Holding in breaths, I try to calm my body by holding my breath.

After several minutes, I get it together enough to type: “And the score changes to: Alex 1 Skydreamer 2. Success is mine!!!!”

_Ding!_

Alex has left you a comment: “Happy to make your day.”

“It’s night : )” And as I hit send, I can’t help hearing Evie’s voice scolding me for poking trolls,

 

> Alex has left you a comment: “a day is a unit of time that really is meaningless. in common usage, it is an length of 24 hours in european standard caluculations. it also can reflect a constant period of time during which the sun is above the horizon of a location. this is refered to as daytime in most areas, though other languages have differing labels. really though it's just a label.”

“Ha! Bait taken!” I talk to the screen as though Alex would just answer me.

Staring at the ceiling fan oscillating above me, I rack my brain for a retort. It comes with great snark through my fingers. Each tapping the screen of the iPad. “Dearest Dictionary.com or Wikipedia (I shall let you decide which is more appropriate OC Skylar), I am familiar with the various meanings of the term. I opted to read your statement in reference to the connotation of day as being a time when the sun is showing on the particular geographical region I was residing when I read your original comment. Obviously, this response was to elicit a defensive reaction on your part, therefore, would cause you to create an automated dictionary recitation. Either way, I was correct in both accounts: my analysis of your response coming during the evening, as well as, your desire correct me by regurgitating the dictionary to me. Bringing the score to: Alexa: 1 Skydreamer: 4"

Two emails come almost simultaneously. Alex must be online waiting for this same interaction.  

 

> Alex has left you a comment: “glad to see you winning. i'm sure you're loveliness is shining right now”
> 
> Alex has left you a comment: “wikipedia is my sourse.”

They’re flirting with me, I decide. Even though it’s stupid. Even though Evie would hate it, I can’t stop my fingers from responding in equal flirtation. Hoping that Alex really is up to talk with me. Hoping that maybe this means something to them. I have nothing really but I take a chance on the possibility that maybe if I show them something different, a little more me, then they will give me what I need.

I answer, “Hmmm. Curiouser and curiouser. I feel like this may be a test that my cynicism is going to cause me to fail. But I have an amazing idea for a new story that will drive you crazy! :)”

 

> Alex has left you a comment: “prefering you not tell me how i feel it would be better just to share”

The statement irks me in its truth. I have a crush on a computer. I have a crush on a computer troll that is usually not very nice, and I know nothing about. Unsettling twisting in my gut makes me need more from Alex.

Taking a chance, I ask for more. “Oh OC Skylar, It will be coming soon. I may even start it tonight. You are correct though, I know nothing about you. No gender. No age. No race. No nationality.. However, from our week long relationship I feel that you will have many snarky comments possibly angry comments to shoot at me.”

There’s movement in the kitchen. A grunt follows a bang. Evie is still up clearly because it’s her voice bouncing off the walls and floor, “Fucking cabinet.”

“You okay?” I ask, not sure why I’m letting her know I’m still awake.

Evie doesn’t answer. A quiet padding up to my room and the teen makes her way into the room and into my bed. With my girl under the covers, she looks at me with tired eyes. Bags under her eyes tell me she’s been worrying.

“What’s up, E?”

Her lip disappears between her teeth. Chewing on her words and her flesh, she looks me over. Honesty still a new development between us, I wait patiently hoping that I didn’t lose that with Brandon. She speak though, pulling my mind from my faults. “She doesn’t seem much older than me.”

Ana. It takes a moment, but I know she’s talking about Ana. My throat burns with the bile rising at the confirmation of what I too had been questioning. I can’t even answer her with more than a nod. My silence is unsettling for me, but I also know that Evie does best when she just gets to talk. The silence seems to be her weakness, and she follows true to past habits.

“What if it was me?”

Gravity shifts as I close my eyes and thank every god I can name in the moment at the affirmation that it hadn’t been her. That Brandon had never hurt her like her prior guardian. I answer her this time because I feel like she needs to know what I would’ve done if it had been her. “I would’ve have killed him.”

Silence once more. A comfortable silence though as she curls closer into me, and I absorb the heat radiating from her. The touch a reminder that even in all my sefl pity, I still have my girl.

Evie elbows me though. Just enough to be playful as she tries to poke holes in my statement, “You don’t even kill spiders.”

The email dings, but this is more important that my need for attention. Evie putting trust in me to protect her from bad people. Bad people like her step father and possibly even Brandon. She moves to be the big spoon. After all these years, she still can’t turn her back to me. She holds me though, as I reaffirm to her that indeed I would kill him.

“I have a lot of money and I think of clever ways to mutilate and murder people in my stories. I promise I would kill him or pay someone to do it for me.”

I expect a laugh, but I don’t get one. Instead, I feel her breath on the back of my head, “Are we going to kill him for Ana?”

Heart pounding, I find it difficult to see straight, hear anything, or really think. I am thinking though. I’m think so much I can’t answer her. She knows this though, and carefully she says, “In the morning we should talk about keeping her. I don’t think she has a place to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think of the story. I am curious for those that read the original clexa piece if you prefer the first person or third person account. Best wishes, Luxi


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